


Storms Rage {This Heart is a Wild Thing}

by Trixen



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-07-21 13:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 33,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7388911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the Golden Globes, things have been balancing on a razor wire between Sam and Caitriona. After Cannes, everything changes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Do you come together ever with him?  
And is he **dark enough, enough**  
 _to see your light?  
_ \- Damien Rice

 

 

Caitriona is well aware of a few things.

 

1) She is being stupid.

 

2) She is also being cruel.

 

3) She's a better liar than she thought. Which, really, is not something to be proud of. Or is it? Here she is, tummy-down in her apartment, still high from Cannes, drinking straight from a bottle of red wine. It is plummy in her mouth. Rich and dark, like a person's secret places.

 

4) She is most definitely tipsy, even by her own standards. Which, admittedly, are off the charts. Where grown men fall down, Caitriona rises up.

 

5) She is listing things again in her mind, which can't in any way be considered a good development.

 

Oops. She's still doing it. Cait picks up her phone, scrolling through her music until she finds it. Sometimes, when the rush in her belly gets to be too much, when it feels like her skin is more alive than the rest of her body, when the bray of her heart actually __aches_ , _she listens to Damien and goes back to that night, in a smoky pub in Dublin, when she heard him for the first time. He had literally snatched her breath and she had been certain - he was speaking to __her_. _ He seemed to know just what lived underneath the civility of her manner, the gentleness of her eyes, the prim line of her mouth. Ever since, she's used him as a quasi-therapist, which admittedly, is a bit odd, but  usually he keeps her from doing anything foolish.

 

Usually.

 

His voice fills the room, just a tiny bit thready and needy and angered. 

 

_You wanna get burned_  
You wanna get turned  
You wanna get fucked inside out  
You wanna be ruled  
You wanna be fooled  
You wanna be a woman like a man like a woman like a man

 

"God," she says out loud. Takes another long drink of wine. The bottle is almost gone. Her phone pings just once, and she reads the text through eyes blurred from salt. Or blood. Because shouldn't she bleed? With regret, at the very least.

 

_we need to talk x_

 

Sam texts again. _where are you_  


Cait considers not answering, but that would be wrong because he might call and she thinks if she hears his voice she'll be disassembled. Thinking for a moment, she types. _NY. apt... not the usqual_  


Dammit. He immediately replies. _sloshed, balfe?_  


_No. Was just trying to say I'm not in a hotel like usual. Why, you?_

_not as much as i'd like to be_

There is something oddly intimate about that sentence. Cait's stomach tightens and she types. _This isn't the best idea, Sam._  


_what? talking?_

_Yes._

 

_why?_

_Because._

_because all i can think about is your cunt against my mouth? because i can't work or sleep or get anything fucking done without remembering the way you came on my cock?_

FUCK FUCK FUCK five alarm warning Jesus H Christ, she sits up so fast that she almost passes out. 

How had this gotten so far away from her? How had this even happened? She can remember the audition but it is hazy, like a dreamscape. She had been so fucking nervous, and while he'd tried to put her at ease, the knowledge that he'd already been chosen and she was just passing through, it was maddeningly off-putting. And then those first few months in the greens of Scotland, with only the birds and the sheep for company. Learning lines. Taking endless lessons. Her waist hurting from the corsets. Tobias making them listen to a series of incomprehensible bands with lyrics she couldn't fathom, even a few whiskeys deep. 

 

So innocent, then. 

No longer, and they can't go back. Can't go forward either, but that's neither here nor there, because all she needs now is for Sam to understand that it can't happen again. Not for any reason. 

  
_How many times?_ The words filter through the wilds of her brain, tangling like smoke through the forests behind her eyes. _How many times have you said that before, Caitriona?_  


 

"Oh shut up," she says aloud, rather crossly. She falls back onto the bed once more, pillowed by the velvet of the comforter. Eddie snuffles beside her, scratching out in dreams, her paws like little batons buffeting the air. Cait buries her face against that soft belly, and feels claws delve into her hair, as if in sympathy. 

 

And why shouldn't her darling baby feel sorry for her? Caitriona feels sorry for _herself._ She hadn't stood a chance. Because the truth is, it started in the beginning (from the first moment that blue met blue), but it didn't truly truly truly come to a devastating head until the fucking Golden Globes. She should have known better, she really should have. 

 

~

 

It was 4:33am, and the room smelled like Italy. Sunburnt tomatoes, fresh bleeding garlic, the earthiness of basil, the piquant ripeness of peppers, bubbling wine. Pizza boxes littered the floor. Empty bottles of Dom Perignon sat at odd angles on every available surface. A glittering glass was in her hand, and Caitriona stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, feeling as if the world was opening before her, splitting down its core, welcoming her in, its warm arms like the promise of acceptance. The stars were dragons in the black night, racing with fire. 

 

Sam lay on her bed - well, sprawled really, his arm flopped over his eyes. His suit jacket was long gone. The bow tie hanging loose. His hair was mussed and she guessed her friends' questing fingers had something to do with that. They all found Sam __deliciou_ s _in this way that reminded her of how people climbed all over newborn puppies, loving their wriggles and newness. It didn't really _bother_ Caitriona so much as baffle her.

 

She hadn't been able to bear the idea of taking off her dress. But she'd shaken out her hair, letting it fall like ruffles to her shoulders. Slipped off the priceless earrings and immediately couriered them back to her agent for returning. Then she'd eaten three slices of gluten free pizza, felt sick, showed off her food baby to anyone tipsy enough to listen, gotten drunk with Donal and watched Tony and Sam make uncomfortable conversation about various things. She'd caught snippets - rugby (which T couldn't stand), pubs in New York, something that sounded like persimmons but couldn't be, right - and it made her cringe, all of it, for reasons she couldn't quite put her finger on.

 

Now, they were alone, with the night pressing in. Even T had gone, after pressing a kiss to her red lips, murmuring that he needed to catch his 6am back to NYC and absently patting her back. "Good show," he'd said. "You did well." He'd tasted of pepperoni. 

 

Cait sipped the champagne. It alighted on her tongue like fireflies. Sam stirred and looked up, making an incomprehensible noise from the back of his throat.

 

"Eughaghrr," he said again. 

 

"Good evening to you too, Heughan," she smiled and raised her glass. "Thought Scottish boys were supposed to be able to hold their drink?"

 

Sam looked offended. His tie fell off, exposing the tan of his throat, the hollows there. "I _can_." His eyes darted. "Where is everyone?"

 

"They were about as exciting as you," she returned and tip toed past the pizza boxes, plonking herself on the bed next to him. He rolled over onto his side and she offered him the glass. He drank deeply, handing it back to her with the smudge of his lips still visible. It was faintly pink, like a blush.  

 

"Snogging someone, were you?"

 

He shrugged. "Not sure, to be honest. It all started to get fuzzy at the third bottle. But your friend Chloe is--"

 

"Not a bloody chance."

 

"And why is that, Balfe?"

 

"For many reasons, _Heughan_ ," she said, attempting a smile. "One, she's much too young for you -"

 

"Bollocks, I think she was the one who kissed me-"

 

"Secondly," she said as if he hadn't spoken, "she takes things to heart. She wouldn't be content to be one of your --"

 

Their eyes lock. 

 

"My what, Cait?" he asked, his voice flat.

 

"Your-- you know, your flings."

 

" _Flings,"_  he repeated. "That's an interesting way to categorize my relationships. I didna know you felt that way about them."

 

She paused. "I don't feel any way about them."

 

"Of course not, how silly of me." He turned away, getting up and stalking toward the window. Muttering under his breath. "I forgot we were in Caitriona world."

 

Something had shifted, and she was struggling to catch up. But that - that sounded so blatantly _hostile_ that she couldn't reconcile it. She sat up, watched him at the window, his back taut against the white shirt. He was cast in sharp relief against the black sky and diamond stars. It made her hurt, and she didn't know why.

 

"What is that supposed to be mean? I don't --"

 

"Forget it, Cait."

 

"No, I won't." Stroppy till the last. She stood, tripping over her skirt as she crossed to him. "I don't know why you'd _want_ me to feel anything about your girlfriends -"

 

"I don't. Just drop it."

 

"No." She brought her hand up and something - some ancient, primal whisper - told her it was a mistake, but she did it anyway. She touched the midpoint of his back, where the muscles joined and dipped slightly. He didn't flinch, and she realized suddenly that he could see her in the reflection of the glass. He could see her behind him, her hand outstretched. Her pale skin glowed, and their eyes cracked like electricity. Blue fought blue.

 

"Don't touch me, Caitriona," he said. "Not unless--"

 

"Unless what?" and she didn't recognize her own voice. 

 

He turned abruptly. Her hand dropped away, and yet she could still feel the material of his shirt. Feel the suggestion of heat beneath it. Cait looked up into his eyes, not trusting herself really, but thinking that if she cannot look at him - she was confirming something. Something that had remained locked away, until this moment in the quiet hotel room, after a night of so much noise.

 

"Unless you want me to--" he whispered and then let his hand speak for him. He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, and she could feel the sea change, the mountains move, the tectonic plates shifting, crackling, letting in air, forming volcanoes, gullies, vast plains and deserts and oceans. It was just a tease, just his hand touching her face, down to her neck, behind her ear, to her nape. But Caitriona felt it in every aching point of her body.

 

"Do that," he finished. He stopped touching her and turned away, back to his stars. 

 

He left soon after.

 

~

 

And God, she remembers the first time they'd all gotten truly squiffy together. The pub was dark, a bit cold. There was a fire burning in the grate. Dogs lay at their owners' feet, snoring, dreaming. She'd been missing Eddie and feeling like tears were in the back of her throat, just waiting. But it was still exhilarating. This was a proper show, after all. People might actually _watch_ it. And she and Sam were crammed against the stone wall, Tobias and Maril across from them, all drinking red wine and whiskey.

 

Sam had his arm around her, and every so often, his palm squeezed her shoulder, feeling the winged bone there. They were all laughing, discussing anything but Outlander, needing a break from themselves, from the show and whatever madness surrounded it. But then Maril said something about a past lover, and Tobias quirked a brow at her. He asked, "and what's your story then, Caitriona?"

 

Sam looked at her then. She could feel it. They hadn't known each other long, but she could still feel it. She'd shrugged and forced a laugh and felt awfully like crying - except this time, it wasn't about Eddie. "Oh, I 'spose it's not a secret ..." she paused and quirked her brow across the table, studiously avoiding the burning blue. "I'm engaged actually. I-- it was a bit before the audition." The words out, she took a breath, shaking off the congratulations, the teasing. "Ah well, he's a good bloke. His name is Tony. We've been together for absolutely ages."

 

As Tobias and Maril mocked her for never mentioning him - toasting her and her nonexistent ring - Sam's arm slipped away, very quietly, like a whisper, and Caitriona watched him join in the toast, his smile reaching his eyes - as ever, such a good actor.

 

And now. The phone is mocking her with its angry red light. Flash flash flash.

 

Like the masochist she is, Caitriona reads the message.

 

_I know you're thinking about me too. about the way I put your hands above your head._

A hot flush starts its way from her belly to her face, and she feels like throwing the phone across the room. But she doesn't, because what if she broke it? 

 

But why shouldn't she break it? Isn't this how they took that cliff-leap? That phone call?

 

That knock on her hotel room door?

 

_Cait, you know we need to talk._

 

She types quickly, before she can even think, before she can let him disassemble her any further, with memories, with the memory of his body against hers, of the way her heart raged beneath her breasts. Of the way it still rages.

_Come over. You know the way._

_+_

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Caitriona is sweating. Beneath her breasts, around her belly like the thinnest of gold chains. Hot, slippery. The nape of her neck feels warm to the touch, like a baby's. She stalks around the apartment with a balloon glass of red wine clutched in her hand, wishing it was gin. Eddie follows curiously behind, making vaguely irritated noises. 

 

Cait looks down at herself. Tiny black sleep shorts. A pink t-shirt that says **So, an Irish Girl Walks Out of a Pub. Hey, It Could Happen**. She finds it quite funny and perhaps that's not the right impression at the moment. Maybe she should look demure.  

 

"Should I change?"

 

Eddie meows and then yawns hugely, stretching out on her back and pawing the air with casual grace.

 

"Oh you're a lot of help," Cait says, but then dissolves into mush as she always does, bending down and rubbing Eddie's belly until her baby curls up in contented bliss. "Well, _should_ I?"

 

Eddie blinks. Is it a judgmental blink or a cat blink? 

 

"Maybe you're right. I'll leave it. I should look as god-awful as possible, so he takes one look and heads back to whatever blonde he has stashed away for the night." Cait tests the name out, hating the 'M' sounds, how they stutter on her tongue. How it feels to say the name of a girl Sam is potentially - okay _definitely_ whatever - fucking. It makes her belly curl in on itself. As if it is trying to get away from her, this mess.

 

Because what a fucking mess she's made of things. A _jolly sodding mess_ as her sister likes to say. All because she couldn't keep it in her pants.

 

All because of that dress. Cait flops on the couch in a tangle of kitty and limbs, Eddie scratching her stomach as she clambers onto her mistress, digging claws in where appropriate, depositing kisses and wet-nosed snuffles. Then she tries to drink the red wine, which Caitriona snatches away just in time, taking a long drink herself. Feeling the burn down her throat, behind her breastbone. Eddie settles, looking affronted. 

 

"How did it happen?" she asks her. Eddie begins licking her paws, clearly believing Caitriona to be beyond help.

 

Maybe she is, but why though. Why? How had she--

 

The truth dissolves and builds and dissolves and builds, like salt in the ocean. Because she'd needed -- _needed_ , in a way she'd never dreamed she could, never even in the dirtiest, most secret parts of her, never in her nightmares or fantasies or in the hot blood of her heart. 

 

And so Cait closes her eyes, back to that last night in Cannes, back to the moment she'd done something so awful, so cruel, so unlike _herself_ that she feels as if it's seared into her skin, visible to anyone. 

 

She'd been staring out the window again. Just like the Golden Globes. But she was drinking a gin and tonic. It was tart and limey in her mouth, stinging her teeth. Tony had gone hours before, back to New York. They'd had one final party and come back to the room to say goodbye: a perfunctory kiss, like an old married couple. She was wearing a maroon silk dress, its straps as flimsy as dreams.

 

She could see her own reflection in the window, all that polished skin, the unforgiving knot of her hair, the drop earrings almost brushing her shoulders. She was whispering poetry to herself, to the expanse of stars.

 

_"love is more thicker than forget_

_more thinner than recall_

_more seldom than a wave is wet_

_more frequent than to fail_

 

_it is most mad and moonly_

_and less it shall unbe_

_than all the sea which only_

_is deeper than the sea..."_

 

Mad and moonly. Caitriona took a long gulp of the drink and poured herself another at the bar, heavy on the gin. The dress whispered against her legs and there was a knock at the door. Perhaps Tony had ordered something from room service and forgotten? It would be just like him. 

 

"Who is it?"

 

"Housekeeping."

 

She flinched. And smiled involuntarily. Opening the door, she greeted him the only way she knew how at that particular moment. "What the _fuck,_ Heughan?"

 

"Hallo to you too," he returned, chucking her chin. He held up a bottle of Hendricks. "Assume it's G&T time?"

 

"How did you--"

 

He barged in. "Know you too well, Balfe. It's bollocks hot out, so you're on the cold stuff." Sam tossed an overnight case by the couch and set the gin on the bar. He eyed her glass. "Also should've known you'd be well into your cups by now."

 

"I am _not,_ " she said primly. "What are you even-- how did you get here?"

 

"Naught but a hop, skip and a jump," he said, cracking open the gin. _Scottish_ gin, naturally, and she had to grin at that, even if he was insufferable. "'Sides, I was bored."

 

"Bored?" she echoed.

 

"Only so much munro climbing one can do, Balfe," Sam said, pouring himself a drink and walking over to top up hers as well. At this rate, it would be straight gin before long. He looked her up and down and seemed to come into himself suddenly. Taking a breath, he sipped his drink. "Quite an outfit."

 

She dipped her head. "You like it?"

 

Sam breathed out again. "What there is of it appears to do its job rather well." He paused. "I'd already seen it -- someone posted on Twitter--"

 

"Oh." Caitriona considered that. "So--"

 

"So, where is he?"

 

"You mean my fiance?" she bit out, suddenly more than a touch annoyed with him. Why was he acting so strangely? 

 

"Aye," Sam replied and sat down on the couch, looking well at home, like it was his own hotel room. His jeans stretched taut over his thighs, and he wore his normal traveling t-shirt - black, thin. His arms were tan and so was his throat. He smelled like Scotland. 

 

"Gone back," she said shortly and curled up on the chair opposite, tucking her legs underneath the pleated silk of her dress. "He couldn't stay forever."

 

"A shame, I'm sure," Sam muttered. 

 

"Why are you acting like such a wanker?" Caitriona asked mildly. Underneath, she was boiling, but she would be damned if she showed him.

 

"I'm not."

 

"You are."

 

"What are we, Cait, five?"

 

"I'm not the one acting like a jealous boyfriend."

 

"Oh that's my title, is it?" he bristled and downed his drink in one swallow. 

 

Caitriona watched his throat work with something akin to pain. She was reminded of a poem she'd read once on a train, going somewhere, somewhere.

_the boy_

_with skin the light sinks into_

_and hair red as steak on fire._

_when he leans from his window like ice cream melting,_

_my mouth waters hot salt._

 

"What do you want me to do, Sam?" 

 

He looked up quickly. "How do you mean?"

 

"I'm engaged."

 

"So you keep reminding me," he said. "I _get_ it, Caitriona."

 

"Then why are you baiting me? Why are we arguing? Why are you here, so late --"

 

He stood, pouring himself another drink at the bar. Ice drifted through the clear liquid, like arctic fire. "I saw that picture and I--" he laughed harshly and walked to the window. Suddenly they were back there, in that hotel room smelling of garlic and salt, and she was touching his back. He was saying, _Unless you want me to..._

Sam turned slightly.  His voice was rough. "I wanted to tear that fucking dress off you."

 

It was like lightning, or electricity. A hot rush in her belly. Branches of heat from her nipples to between her legs. Cait stood, already trembling. "How can you say that to me?"

 

"I think about you," he said, low and dark. "I think about the way you might taste. I think about --" he paused, and she could tell what he was going to say next was almost unbearably intimate and she was frightened and shaking and god, it _was_ unbearable. "Once, after a scene, I saw that you were wet. I didna mean to look but -- it was on your thighs." His fists clenched at his sides and he closed his eyes. "I went back and jerked off until I could see straight again. Just the thought of putting my tongue there--"

 

Caitriona turned away, unable to look at him, at how he's shaking almost imperceptibly. She knew then - he was trying not to touch her, and shaking with the effort of it. Her body felt like an exposed nerve. And then he was behind her, his palms on her bare shoulders. Cait shuddered, wanting to sink back into him. Sam murmured against her ear. "Tell me not to fuck you, Caitriona, and I won't."

 

" _God_ ," she gasped out.

 

"You'll have plenty of time to scream that later," he laughed low, biting her lobe between his teeth, licking at the wet, sore mark left behind.  "But I was actually hoping you'd say my name."

 

"What?" she asked, not sure she was processing, or thinking, her mind buzzing with the sensation of his teeth and tongue and mouth.

 

"When you come," he said, pulling her back into his body. "I want to hear you scream my name as you come on my cock."

 

Her control snapped. Cait spun around, grabbing his neck. Their first kiss - without cameras or sound men or boom mikes - it was as raw and wet and hot as she'd been imagining, and he groaned as he pulled at her lips, his tongue in her mouth, his hands gathering up the silk of her dress. 

 

"This can't--" she broke away and he yanked her back, his fingers delving into her knot of hair. Sweet sting. Caitriona whimpered. "This can't mean anything -- just once, that's all--"

 

Sam stared at her. His eyes shuttered. "Aye? Well, I'll have to make sure it's one to remember then."

 

"Sam -- I--"

 

"Shut up, Caitriona," he said low, and moved his hips so she felt every inch of him, throbbing. Hot. "I've thought of little else but this since you walked into that audition room. But I won't fuck ye until you ask for it."

 

"What?" her eyes sparked.

 

He kissed her hard, quick. "We might regret this in the morning, but I want ye to know exactly who it was that fucked you. I want you to remember." He leaned down and dragged his tongue along her bottom lip, and she opened her lips with a moan. "I want you to go out into the world, with your pussy still wet for me, remembering you asked for me to fuck you, and I did."

 

_Bang - bang - bang._

Cait starts, shaken from her memories like dust. She remembers. Too bloody well, and that's the problem. That's the Sam-shaped problem at the centre of this quagmire of infidelity and lies and sex that she almost believes she made up in her head. It couldn't have been so good that she cried, could it? It couldn't have been so good that she almost passed out? That he'd trembled against her, his mouth at her neck, her feet pressing into his back, his cock already moving again, his sweat on her breasts? 

 

_Bang - bang - bang._

She needs to answer it. She knows she does. But the idea of him here suddenly, in her space, in this private place with her tights on the heaters to dry, with her bottles of wine on the counter-tops, with the glasses she uses to read slung over the lamp? It's _unbearable._

 

As unbearable as the idea of not fucking him again. 

 

Eddie purrs, as if she is tuned into Cait's own vibrations at his nearness. As if she can smell him through the drywall and oak. 

 

Cait knows, he'll smell of rain, of sex, of home. Of sweet sweat and the sharp copper of desire. Her mouth waters hot salt.

 

She gets up slowly, going to answer the door. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The memories pummel her belly as she walks down the hallway toward the sound of his knocks. 

 

_Sam’s voice, guttural and — anguished, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was saying the words. “Open your cunt for me, Cait. Let me —“ and she did, she spread her legs and she felt and heard him groan as he took her in._

 

_His hand knotting the hair at her nape. Her mouth was filled with him. Her palms rested on the tops of his thighs, feeling the rasp of hair, the vibrations thrumming through his body as he said her name, his teeth clenched, the heat of him like fire, hurting her, opening her._

 

Her hand touches the door. “Who is it?"

 

“Frank.” 

 

She pouts, laughing despite of herself. 

 

“Then I’m not here."

 

“I brought a few wee gifts from home…"

 

Cait bites her bottom lip, unlocking the door. He looks her up and down, cocking a brow. “Nice PJs, Balfe."

 

“Sod off,” she replies automatically, awkwardly moving aside for him. She’s not sure how to act now that The Line has been crossed. Well, plundered, really. But he doesn’t seem concerned. He chucks her chin, as is his habit, and strolls down the hall to the living room. And then...

 

“Edddieeee!"

 

Cait smirks and turns, watching him kneel down and then lie on his belly, as is his habit when it comes to the queen of the household. Eddie looks at him askance, and then relents, rolling onto her back and submitting to various ministrations, including petting, cooing, kissing noises, and tickling. Sam - like most people - is powerless in the face of kitties. 

 

“Did you bring something for her?"

 

“I did. Wouldn’t show my face otherwise.” Sam pauses to look up. “Treats of some description. Think I got them at Tesco."

 

“Gasp,” Cait teases. “Not Waitrose? How dare you!"

 

“Tesco not good enough for ye, wee lassie?” Sam murmurs to Eddie, nuzzling her nose. Eddie bats him with her paw affectionately. “See? She loves me."

 

“She’s a slut."

 

“That makes two of us then,” he says, standing and tossing his bag onto the couch. “I brought those gluten free crisps ye fancy so much.” Sam pauses and looks over his shoulder. “Any guac?"

 

Cait rolls her eyes. “Hungry?"

 

“Always.” He locks his gaze on her. “Besides, I’m a growing boy."

 

“I won’t even touch that,” she says tartly. Memories are battling for space, juddering beneath her skin.

 

_Cait’s legs were over his shoulders as he fucked her. Her head hung off the side of the bed and he was murmuring to her, teasing her, his accent roughening with each word, each stroke. “Tell me how ye touch yourself at night. Do ye think of me?” and she whimpered, “yes yes I do” and he laughed softly, easing back and running the head of his cock over her clit. “I go blind every night thinking of you, Cait."_

 

“So?"

 

Cait starts, coming back into herself. Perhaps drinking so much wine wasn’t the best idea. She stares at him blankly. “So…?"

 

“Guacamole.” Sam looks amused, as if he can see what she’s thinking. 

 

_What a horrid thought._ Her face heats with blush and blood and she side-steps him, heading for the open-plan kitchen. Perks of the new pay cheque - this one is actually bigger than any she’s ever had in New York. As in, it’s slightly larger than a postage stamp. “I’ll make you some."

 

“With jalapeños?” he asks hopefully.

 

“I think I have a jar somewhere,” she grumbles but inside, there’s a glow she’d rather die than let him see. She does quite like cooking for him. It’s bollocks, really, to be so … so… housewifey? Because she’s a bloody feminist and yet - there it is. Cooking for him, seeing the pleasure on his face when he eats one of her odd concoctions? It is satisfaction at its most basic and primal.

 

Sam hoists himself up on one of the bar stools as Caitriona assembles the ingredients. Avocados, fresh coriander from the bodega down the way, pickled jalapeños, plump limes and flaky sea salt. They both like their guac a little trashed up, with just the right balance of acidity and creaminess, and spicy enough to smack them between the eyes. 

 

“I also brought gin."

 

Cait misses the centre of the avocado and almost slices off her finger. “Perhaps — perhaps we shouldn’t."

 

“Aye,” he smirks a bit - she can hear it in his voice - “well then, I brought tequila as a second choice. Margarita, Balfe?"

 

And so, she makes a gigantic bowl of perfectly green, perfectly velvety and perfectly delicious guacamole. Pours the crisps she _does_ quite fancy - he’s right - onto hot pink plates she’d been given once as a bit of a piss-taking, but joke was on them as Cait found them endlessly enchanting. Why _not_ eat off hot pink plates, after all?

 

He fusses with her blender and puts together something that vaguely resembles a pitcher of margaritas. Except they are as pink as the plates, and when she quirks a brow, he is defensive. “Twas the only mix they had at the duty free."

 

“So,” Cait begins, once they are settled, cross-legged, on the plush rug by her coffee table, facing each other. His back against the couch. Hers against the ottoman. “So. You want to talk?"

 

He shrugs, shovelling a chip in his mouth. “Classic guac, Balfe. Really. Might be your best effort to date."

 

She takes a prim sip of margarita. It is tart, only slightly sweet, and tastes of strawberries. Blue clashes with blue and she flushes. “You _said_ you wanted to talk."

 

“I _said_ a lot of things."

 

_Oh fuck._ Her neck is the colour of roses - she can _feel_ it - and the low, dark note in his voice makes her belly knot.  “We should be adults about this. It happens all the time."

 

He quirks a brow. “Aye?"

 

“Well, yes.” She falters a bit and compensates by taking a large bite of chip and guacamole. He’s right. Bloody hell, that _is_ good. If only she was in any state to enjoy it. “Co-stars are always crossing the line. Y’know. Between fact and fiction."

 

“Isn’t that the official PR line as to why our fans think we’re fucking? About them getting confused?” Sam asks, his tone even. “Cause I could’ve sworn we said something similar to Kristin."

 

“We did.” She is starting to feel faintly annoyed. “It’s — it’s a good way of—"

 

“Explaining why we canna keep our hands off of each other?” he says blandly, downing his drink in one go.

 

Cait splutters a bit. “Speak for yourself, Heughan."

 

“It’s complete shite, Caitriona,” he says, pouring himself another. “I’m able to tell the difference between you and Claire. If you canna do that, well—"

 

“I don’t see you as Jamie,” she says and then realizes she’s dropped herself in it, as usual. “Oh, for fuck’s sake."

 

He raises his glass to her, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “To honesty, then?"

 

“I’m engaged.” It’s an abrupt, mean little statement and she can’t look at him as she says it. “It comes down to that. I’m engaged to Tony and I— I, well, that’s that. What we did was horrible and wrong and if…"

 

“If what, Cait?” 

 

“If—“ she wishes she could fucking well get her words out. “If I could take it back— well, I would. But I can’t and that’s the worst of it. Now it’s this _thing_ we’ve done and it will always be there between us. And the guilt just…"

 

“Would ye rather we didn’t see each other outside of the set?” he asks, leaning back a bit. His voice has roughened. “I would understand if ye just wanted to cut off contact."

 

“No.” The word rushes from her lips and Caitriona’s eyes fly up to Sam’s. His jaw is tight, working a bit. “Sam— you’re my best mate, you know that. I couldn’t… no. I would never want to… _not_ see you."

 

He looks down and away. “Why isn’t Tony your best mate, Cait?"

 

“What?"

 

“Shouldn’t he be, given you’ve pledged your troth?” his tone is light, even a bit teasing. But in his face, she can see the tension. 

 

“I don’t…” she trails off. “He’s just… he was never, like… a mate. He just— he’s quite serious mostly, as you’ve seen and we’ve just never really been anything but lovers. That sounds horrible, the way I put it - but. It’s always been quite romantic. Y’know… it keeps the mystery.” It sounds thin even to her own ears and Cait flinches, munching on guac to hide it. “And we’ve been long distance for so long that there really isn’t time to be proper mates. When we see each other we just want to - well."

 

“Fuck it out,” Sam says.

 

Cait flushes again and wants to curse. Remembering something - something that sears her even in its absence.

 

_She looked down, trying not to make too much noise. He was between her legs, his tongue gentle on her clit, barely touching. She felt as if she was balancing on a razor wire and wanted to moan please please god, touch me there please - but the idea of begging was anathema to her. His eyes met hers. “Do ye want me, Cait?” and she did whimper then, her fingers in his hair and he murmured, “Tell me what ye want, I won’t do it till you say it” and she stared at him, those lips so close to her and she said, "Please" and he took her in his mouth, sucking her deep._

 

Everything is on fire, everything. "Well, whatever you'd like to call it." She pauses and shovels more guacamole into her mouth. Not hungry, but needs must. "So--"

 

"Truth or dare," Sam says.

 

Cait just blinks at him.

 

"Truth or dare, Caitriona."

 

"Truth."

 

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

 

She laughs, the mood broken. "Oh God, you complete shit."

 

"It's a valid question, Balfe." He pauses. "And one you've never answered, may I point out."

 

"Of course I bloody well have," she replies and sips her drink. It is dangerously delicious. "Models get lonely too, Sam."

 

"So there _is_ a God then," he muses. "Your turn."

 

"Truth or dare."

 

"Dare."

 

"Figures." She scratches Eddie's tummy gently, thinking. "Go show Manhattan that gorgeous arse of yours."

 

"Main window?" he asks without skipping a beat. 

 

She smirks. It's one of his favourite things, mooning people. He knows he has the goods. "Balcony, I think."

 

And so it goes. The night gets progressively sillier, until Cait can almost believe that she didn't do what she did, that she didn't make a mess of things, that her tears aren't blood, that she's still the woman she was before Outlander, before she met him, before before before.

 

Hours later, he's foraging through the kitchen for more food. Cait is lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Eddie is firmly planted on her belly, digging uncomfortably into her bladder as she is wont to do. And without the game, without the distraction, Cait drifts, her mind pulling her back into the forests of memory, into that night.

 

_"You want me to--"_

 

_"Ask me to fuck you," he repeated, drawing on her mouth with his tongue, his teeth. She felt each pull in every aching point of her body. "I want ye to remember this mo saoghal."_

 

_"Not fair saying words I don't know," she murmured against his lips._

 

_He smiled. "I'll tell ye sometime."_

 

_Her arms were around his neck. Her breasts flush with his chest. She could feel his heart thundering through his body, the harsh rasps of his breath, the combined weight of this decision echoing through them, the room, the earth. She remembered that night that smelled of Italy, with the stars laid before her like a map of the universe. She remembered the ghost of his hand against her cheek, the way he held himself back, restrained and yearning._

 

_"I want you, Sam," she whispered, and he said no more, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the bedroom._

 

Sam returns, shattering the thin skin of the dream. He's eating what look like sweet potato fries.

 

"Oy, any for me?"

 

"Cooked up whatever you had," he says. "Give 'em a minute to cool down, doll."

 

Her heart squeezes and Cait closes her eyes, trying to ignore every inch of him standing there, in her apartment, eating her food, using her oven, touching her things, existing in her space, breathing in it, tasting the air, tasting her. She can feel that he's staring down at her, his eyes burning through and through. No walls, no way to hide.

 

"Truth or dare, Caitriona."

 

"Truth."

 

"When did you know?"

 

"Know what?"

 

He's silent. 

 

Cait winces and shrugs. "All right. During the audition. I mean, first thing. But it's not like it was this earth shattering revelation. As you may have noticed, you clean up well, Heughan."

 

"I always assumed you were ... indifferent to me." He pours them both more margarita, finishing his fries. He eats lustily, with enjoyment. It's something she's always noticed but pushed to the back of her mind, where the wild things live. "When you walked in the room - like this... goddess, I just--"

 

Will she _ever_ stop blushing? "That's laying it on a bit thick."

 

"No." He looks directly at her and bites his bottom lip with white teeth. "It's not."

 

Cait sits up, dislodging Eddie, who emits a purr of warning. "Shall we drink to it then?"

 

"To what?"

 

She raises her glass to him. "To honesty. And to being mates." She pauses. "I'm glad we talked -- we made a bloody mess of things or we almost did. But I think -- this will be okay. Don't... don't you?"

 

He drinks deeply and wipes his mouth, avoiding her eyes, heading back for the kitchen. "'Course it will."

 

"Good," she says softly, almost to herself, to the room emptied of his presence, the breadth of him. Remembers how he felt, moving against her in bed. She thinks again of the trees inside of her mind, of the smoke that winds through the forests, the smell of wolves, 

 

of wild, wild things.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Cait dreams in snow.

 

_A white night, and the stars glimmer like diamond islands in an ocean of black. Trees surround her, like dark arrows pushing to the heavens, and she sees a mountain in the distance. A river rushes to her right, and to her left, is the wolf. There is blood around her mouth, and her breath tastes of firecrackers._

_Caitriona isn't frightened. Though her wrists are little throats thrumming with veins, though her body has so much ruby red to spill, she knows without knowing that the wolf won't hurt her. In the distance, she can hear singing._

And is he bold enough to take you on?  
Do you feel like you belong?  
And does he drive you wild or just mildly free?  
What about me?

 

_It is Damien, and she has a moment where she wonders why the fuck he is singing in the middle of these vast and lonely woods, but only a moment. Her belly tightens and she looks once more at the wolf. She is Caitriona's heart, braying outside of her body. Caitriona's heart._

Bang - bang - bang

 

The sounds wake her from the kind of sleep where it feels as if you're drowning within the sheets, the ceiling pressing down, the world swallowing you whole. Cait snuffles for a moment, pushing herself off the pillows and remembering oh yes, she is in her trailer on location, and oh yes, that was her assistant. You're late, that knock said. Get thee to make-up, that knock said.

 

"Be right -- there--" she croaks and the knocks stop abruptly. Even Lucille knows what is good for her. Let sleeping Caits lie. And if you don't, be prepared for a few bites.

 

She rolls over onto her back and slowly, slowly, lifts herself from the veil of dreams. Lost as she is in the damp howling winds of Scotland, the least her brain could have done was conjure up images of the Amalfi coast. Trees heavy with oranges. Sunlight sparking off air-blue tile. The water like jewel tipped glass. But of course not. Cait shivers, remembering the snow, the wolf. 

 

Remembering the previous night. 

 

The pub had been packed. Some kind of open mic night, and actually a few of the bands had been quite good. She was sipping red wine with Maril, a plate of chips between them because sod it, Claire could stand to gain a few pounds. All of that stodgy food from the 18th century. Nothing but potatoes, or so she told Maril.

 

"I think. I mean, what else did those poor bastards eat?"

 

Maril smiled at her. "Capon?" she read a lot of historical romances. "Also, I think you're drunk."

 

"Better than not," Cait replied, lifting her glass. 

 

As the night wore on, she ended up in a booth with Sam. Matt and Maril were dancing, pressed together. Toby was chatting up someone at the bar. A rather androgynous girl, with elfin ears. Sam was trying to get her to try his whiskey, but Cait felt like mixing liquors probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. Especially given their recent history. 

 

He quirked one brow her way. "You scared to get squiffy with me, Balfe?"

 

"Why would I be?" she asked, her heart in her throat. It seemed to spend more time there than ever. But only around him. Weeks in Italy hadn't shaken it. The sun and the sand and the wine, oh she'd wished so much for -- for what? For her mind to quieten? For the longing to cease? For the wild things to stay where they were... locked away.

 

He didn't answer her. His knuckles drummed against the table, a repeated, staccato beat. He was using his glass as a magnifier, sticking it against his eye in that slightly sloppy, yet graceful way that he did when he was well into his cups.

 

She repeated. "Why would I be? For one, I'm not frightened of much of anything. And two, I--"

 

"You're listing things again," he said absently. "Ye only do that when you're nervous."

 

"I do _not._ " It was true, she did do that. Cait drank more wine and tried not to be offended. "It's just a silly habit."

 

"I ken _that_ ," he said. His accent was getting thicker the longer they spent in Scotland, and she hardened herself to it. A little shell, encasing Caitriona. He smiled at her. "I'm just saying that you tend to start speaking in numbers when you're feeling a bit... off your game."

 

"I'm never off my game, Heughan," she said tartly. 

 

"Whatever ye say, doll." He looked over at the bar. "Reckon Toby's gonna pull tonight?"

 

"He's certainly trying."

 

"Probably quoting Shakespeare right now. Poor bastard."

 

"There's nothing wrong with being literary," she returns. "Some women _like_ a bit of culture."

 

"Who said I wasn't cultured?"

 

"No one," she laughed. "Sensitive, much, my lad?"

 

He scowled at her. "I'll have ye know that Ma--" 

 

Caitriona started a bit at the abrupt cut to his sentence, at the name she knew he had been about to say. "It's all right, you know."

 

"What is?"

 

"To talk about your-- to talk about her, with me," she said. "I can handle it. Just because we--"

 

"Fucked." He said the word lightly, but there was something darker in his voice. Something she couldn't pinpoint, but that made her stomach curl into itself. 

 

"Shhh," she chided. "Sposed to be a secret if you recall."

 

"I don't want to talk about her with _you,_ Cait," Sam said, and it was the most serious he'd sounded all night.

 

"Of course, you don't have to--" she stumbled and stopped talking because she wasn't doing herself any great favours. The words kept coming though, as if her lips were the gateway to embarrassing moments she'd never live down. "I just meant -- we can still be mates - I mean, you know that but we can, it --"

 

"Let's dance," he said, grasping her elbow in his palm.

 

"Welll-"

 

"Let's not have arguments, Balfe," he cut her off and fairly dragged her to the dance floor. Cait laughingly protested, but actually, she thought it might be better than sitting in close quarters, smushed into a booth. Besides, she didn't even _want_ to bloody well talk about his latest conquest. Cait slapped her own wrist for that bit of sexism, and tried to remember she was a mature adult and she had a fiance - fuck knew when she'd see him again of course, but he was there in the world somewhere - and this was all going to get better. It had to. 

 

Sam was a hideous dancer in the best of times, and he wiggled all over the place, bumping into Maril and Matt, and singing along. There was sweat on his neck, his collarbone, and the hair at his nape was damp with it. Cait looked away, concentrating on not falling over.

 

A girl and a young man stepped up on stage. He sat down on the piano. She lowered the microphone. When the music came on, it sounded vaguely familiar to Cait, but she couldn't place it. And then - oh no.

_When the evening shadows and the stars appear  
_ _and there is no one there to dry your tears  
_ _I could hold you for a million years  
_ _to make you feel my love_

Sam's hand was on her waist. Right at the tender place where it dipped inward. Cait shuddered only slightly, and leaned in, placing her hand on his arm. So careful. Gently, gently. He wasn't looking at her. Instead, he gazed somewhere over her shoulder, his jaw tight. But his hands were on her back, ghosting over the silk of her blouse. Her fingers grasped his t-shirt, and soon, their bodies met, and she felt it like clanging bells, his chin against her forehead. 

 

The girl's voice was haunting, filling the pub to the rafters. _I know you haven't made your mind up yet, but I would never do you wrong. I've known it from the moment that we met, no doubt in my mind where you belong._

Stinging tears burned her eyes without warning, and Cait pressed her face against his neck. Salt against salt. Her mouth tasted him. Sam went very, very still for a moment, his arms tightening around her and then one of his hands found the back of her head, and his other pressed into her lower back and they were wrapped around each other and she knew, knew that she had to stop this.

 

"I should--"

 

"No," he said, his voice low, rough. Dark. "Don't, Cait."

 

"I have to--" and the tears rushed to the back of her throat again, and she was mortified, sure she was going to cry or kiss his mouth. The mouth she remembered. Caitriona pulled out of his arms, her whole body and her heart, _god her hear_ t, everything ached. "I have to go."

 

He didn't try to stop her, and here now, in the quietness of the trailer, Cait wonders why. Was he sick of her yet? Of their 'friendship'? Sick of seeing the faint glow of her tan, sick of pretending, sick of the bloody mess they'd made of things? And she wonders again, why had she let herself ask him to fuck her - because she _had_ asked, and she _had_ walked out of the room, still wet from him, still remembering how he'd fucked her and made her come until she'd cried with it.

 

She shakes herself free of the memories, and crawls out of bed. They don't have any scenes together today. To the best of her knowledge, he's off. She's supposed to be traipsing around a boggy mountain or some other terrible thing. No dialogue, just facial expressions. She thinks she'll be able to handle it.

 

Just.

 

+

 

It's late, and the wind roars outside. She's back in her flat. Another bout on location begins in two days. But for now, peace. Eddie snuffles in dreams, her whiskers twitching. Cait is listening to Damien, because she's a glutton for sodding punishment these days, and sipping red wine. It is rich and dark, almost as dark as the sky outside. Lightning streaks and flashes, burning the clouds. The cracks of thunder sounds like waves on a rocky shore, and she remembers Le Havre, the sunshine, the fish smell of the docks.

 

She remembers the photo he posted. Realizing he'd been watching her and she hadn't known. It had made her belly go funny, even then, but she'd ignored it. Sam, to her, had always been a bit of a player, and she'd accepted that early on. He wasn't serious. He was the Scottish equivalent of Leonardo DiCaprio, except he hadn't let himself go in spectacular fashion.

 

Sam, in other words, was not a viable option.

 

Sam.

 

Lisa Hannigan's voice whispers in the stillness. _It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you._ The doorbell chimes. Cait knows, without truly knowing. She gets up. Checks herself in the mirror quickly. Tight jeans. A black turtleneck. Hair a mess. Red wine stains on her mouth. 

 

Of course she looks through the spy hole but it's not a mystery who it is. Perhaps it should be, but she'd been expecting this since she walked out of the pub. 

 

"Hi," she says shakily. 

 

Sam just looks at her. His hands are on either side of the door frame, gripping. He's in jeans and a white t-shirt. It looks worn from washings, slightly thin at the hems. At his feet are a navy cardigan and a Tesco bag. His eyes darken as he takes her in, and Cait trembles with it, unsure for the first time in a long time. 

 

"Ask me in, Caitriona."

 

The words are simple, but his tone is not. 

 

Cait flushes and god, will this never stop, this angry _wanting_ that threatens to disassemble her? She closes her eyes briefly and then answers him. "Come in."

 

He does, picking up his things. The bag has treats for Eddie. She can see them peeking out. He's also brought two bottles of red wine. He knew a stormy night would make her want comfort, warm things. Things to heat the blood. He sets the bag carefully on the hall table. His hair is wet with rain, and he turns to her, closing the door with his palm.

 

Sam's eyes burn, and they meet hers, bluer than she's ever seen them before. His voice is slightly hoarse, slightly forceful. His jaw a hard line.

 

His words snatch her breath.

 

"Take off your clothes."


	5. Chapter 5

Her hands shudder, just a bit - a breath. In time with her heart. 

 

_Thrum thrum thrum_

She can feel that her cheeks are blooming with blood. Pink roses beneath her skin. Sam watches her carefully. He's twisting the cap off one of the bottles of wine. Bringing it to his mouth, drinking deeply. His throat works as he swallows and Caitriona feels that movement down to her bones, down to the salty, secret places that no one else knows.

 

His words still echo in the room, the hall. _Take off your clothes._ And she thinks, _so he wants a show, does he?_ It should make her nervous or angry, this demand - because it wasn't a question, that was for certain - but it doesn't. Instead, she feels the flush of triumph, because he really doesn't know who he's dealing with. 

 

In the living room, the windows rattle a bit from the rain and wind and Hozier sings of taking his lover to church. _Offer me that deathless death Good God let me give you my life_ and Cait begins with the hem of her turtleneck. Sam's eyes go black as she rolls it up, bit by bit, turning slightly to give him her side. She's bra less, and the teacup of her breast is just visible as she takes off the top, swishing it to the floor fluidly. The music washes over them both and she feels dizzy with it, the _amens_ , the thready need in his voice.

 

Walking down the hall, Cait looks over her bare shoulder and beckons him with her fingers. He follows, dragging off his t-shirt as he goes, and this almost makes her stumble. The polish of his skin, the muscles underneath that flesh, and the bones that lead down beneath his jeans. 

 

Caitriona can feel his eyes on her, on the bowl curve of her back. She's always had a narrow waist, but it's gone narrower since returning to Scotland. Amalfi put a bit of fleshiness on her - welcomed, really, with its pasta and sunshine and good vegetables and wine. Now, the UK has reclaimed her body with its coldness and wildness, and she has been retreating, getting thinner and hollower. 

 

Now, she feels herself opening. Something inside of her breaking just a little, unraveling. She unzips her jeans and is just tugging them down the slight swell of her hips when Sam's palm presses into her back. He pushes her forward, until she is against the wall, her mouth smearing the wallpaper, her hands splayed. He links their fingers and molds his body to hers. Caitriona barely suppresses a groan at the first hot touch of skin upon skin, contrasting so sharply with the coolness of the wall against her breasts.

 

Sam's mouth is on her neck, his tongue and teeth scoring her flesh and she does groan then, pressing back into him, grinding shamelessly, feeling the hot pulse of his cock, hearing his breaths get hoarser, his mouth more insistent. 

 

"Jesus, Cait," he says low, keeping her hands together above her head with one his own and dragging down her jeans with the other. "I can't wait--"

 

"Just--" she wriggles, trying to help, desperate. "Sam-- just--"

 

"Spread your legs."

 

Cait obeys, getting on her tip-toes and he's palming her breasts, tugging on her nipples with his fingers, sweeping past her belly and holding her steady and then _oh god oh god_ pleasurepain surges inside of her as he feeds his cock deep. Caitriona can't breathe for a moment and her throat closes as he slams forward. His groan echoes hers and she knows without knowing that his eyes are closed in reverence of this moment, him inside of her, her inside of him, heartbeats thundering like the thunder outside.

 

"God," she almost growls it, feeling him plumbing her, the heat of him, strength. " _Fuck me._ "

 

And he does. He fucks her like she's ice cream and the day is hotter than molasses boiling, slowly, devotedly, his mouth at her neck, his one hand on her hipbone, sending her back into him. He fucks her like she's god and he's worshiping at her shores. He fucks her with his entire body, his thighs straining to balance them both, his chest holding her steady, his palm dragging across her clit in a rhythm that feels so dirty, so raw, his skin and hair rasping her until she's mindless with it, keening and so so ready, so on the cusp of shattering -- and then, he angles her in such a way that he's hitting a place inside of her that Cait didn't even know existed.

 

She screams then, bites her lip, tastes blood and he's coming too, she can _feel_ it, feel it like lightning, the orgasm collapsing her body until she's loose in his arms, flushed and almost laughing but not quite, her whole being on fire, throbbing, all of the wild things spilling to the surface.

 

Sam slowly and gently turns her around, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Brief, chaste. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly. "Wine?"

 

"Too right," she giggles, still coming down a bit. "And a towel perhaps?"

 

"Ah," Sam smirks just slightly, pure masculine appreciation in his eyes as he watches her with her hand between her legs. "Forgot about that. Used to using a bit of prot-- well, anyhow. Won't be a minute, Balfe."

 

Later, when they've cleaned up and she's made him spaghetti she brought back from Italy, with sunblushed tomatoes and Parmesan and basil, she sips wine and looks at him there, on her floor, sprawled against the couch. Eddie is delicately licking his ear and giving it affectionate nips every so often. Cait is in black knickers and a t-shirt, too achy to put on her jeans, and the wine glows in her throat.

 

"Ye don't want any?" Sam mumbles around a bite of pasta. 

 

"It's for you. You're a growing boy, remember?"

 

"I remember everything, doll." His tone is teasing but his eyes are not. "So what are you doing for your wee break? Spoiling this one?"

 

"Among other things." Cait pauses. "I thought I might just nest a bit. Stay put. What about-- are you off too?"

 

"Aye. For the next three days."

 

"One more than me." She considers this. "Bastard."

 

He laughs. "Now now. No need for profanity, Balfe. It isna my fault I'm not the star."

 

Cait crosses her legs and quirks her brow. "That's not what I see online." She giggles suddenly, her voice a falsetto. "Oh Sam, I love you. Oh Sam, take me, let me bear your ginger children, let me climb munros with you forevermore..."

 

He blushes, rather adorably. "No one has said that. Literally _no one,_ Balfe."

 

"With all the time you spend googling yourself, you'd think you'd have run across a few of those messages."

 

"I do _not_ google myself," Sam says and puts his pasta down for a moment. "That'd be an exercise in madness."

 

"It's all articles about whether or not we're shagging."

 

"So _you're_ the googler then?"

 

"I've looked a time or two," Cait says tartly, unashamed. "I'm still getting accustomed to this, same as you."

 

He nods. "Fair play. I'm just pointing out that you take the piss out of _me_ and yet Ms. Caitriona Balfe is up late every night, feverishly reading Claire and Jamie fan fiction and--"

 

She throws a pillow at him and narrowly misses splattering it with pasta sauce. "Don't you finish that sentence, Heughan."

 

He chuckles. "This is good by the way."

 

"Of course it is. I made it."

 

He rolls his eyes at her. "I'm paying you a compliment, the least you could do is accept it with some grace. Or humility."

 

"Qualities not in my repertoire," Caitriona says, pouring them both some more wine. The candles flicker in the darkness of the room and it's Paula Cole singing now, her voice a study in mindless lust. _You make me feel like I want to be a dumb blonde in a centerfold, the girl next door._ Outside, the storm still rages on, pummeling the city with huge cracks of thunder. "You shouldn't try to go home."

 

"Meaning?"

 

"Meaning you should stay here of course." It comes out a bit huffily, unintentionally, but this is awkward and she wonders if perhaps it's time for another talk of some description. But how is she supposed to say anything - how can she bleat on about _this meant nothing_ and _I have a fiance_ when the words were feeling increasingly ephemeral? 

 

Sam nods. "Suppose I can bunk in with Eddie. And I ken this wasna supposed to happen but--"

 

"I knew it would."

 

That stops him for a second. "Ye did?"

 

"Yes." She pauses. "After we danced. It was-"

 

"Bloody torture," Sam finishes. He takes a large swig of wine, eating and drinking with gusto as he always does. She can't help but feel that squishy warmth in her tummy. God, _feelings._ They complicate absolutely everything. "And then ye left like --"

 

"A coward, you can say it." Cait takes another prim sip of wine. "I'm having an issue with this, is all."

 

"With what? Us?"

 

"Yes and this--" she waves her hand, understanding she's a little sloshed and therefore apt to say silly things but unable to stop. "This whole... thing where you're here, in my place... and you _fit_."

 

He blinks at her, a faint smile touching his lips. "I'm not _that_ big, Caitriona."

 

"Ha ha," she says dryly. "I mean you --"

 

"I ken what you mean." He says it so softly she barely hears him. He reaches up to scratch Eddie's ears. She purrs loudly, glancing at Cait as if to say _take notes, mother dearest._ "Why does that make ye uncomfortable, though?"

 

"Because you're not supposed to fit," she says. "You're supposed to be a mistake. I mean - this is all supposed to be a mistake. So why does it feel like--" 

 

"This is how it's supposed to be?" he finishes and looks directly into her eyes. "Because it is, Cait."

 

She puts down her wine and touches her face. It's like touching a hot plate. Quick sting. Tears in her throat and she swallows fast. "Do you want anything more to eat?"

 

"Yes." 

 

"I have some sweets --" she dares a look at him then and falters. "Ice cream -- it's coconut though and--"

 

"Shut up, Caitriona," he murmurs. 

 

"Why are you always telling me what to do?" she asks helplessly, as their hands link and he pulls her a bit. 

 

"Because I'm hungry," he says and tugs her closer. "And I canna talk while I'm eating."

 

Seconds later, her knickers around her ankles, t-shirt pushed up by his anxious hands, he holds her legs apart as his mouth closes over her clit. Cait lets herself fall back on her elbows, surrenders to it. His mouth is warm and slightly tingly with wine and spice. He likes to do this slow, he told her in that hotel room. He likes to take his time. And he does. He pulls her with his lips until she's as flushed below as she is in her face.

 

Cait listens to the howls of the wind, the lashing rain, and to the sound of him - Sam - sucking on her clit, until she's so far gone she's sure she'll come just from the lightest touch.

 

When he stops, she actually reaches to grab him back, and he laughs softly, stilling her hands. "Do ye still keep that thing you told me about? In Cannes?" his voice is low. "By your bed?"

 

Cait shudders at the question. She knows what he's going to do and everything in her is tightening, hurting for release. "Yes."

 

He's only gone a moment. When he returns, her has a small glass vial in his hand and something else - also glass. "This okay?"

 

"Yes," she moans, not sure she can breathe without breaking apart. 

 

"Wait," he says. "I don't want ye to come yet, Caitriona."

 

"I can't--"

 

"Yes ye can." He pours some of the oil onto his palm and then he's spreading her legs farther, until it's almost painful but not quite - rubbing it into her, and she feels one finger, two. All while his thumb skates over her clit, just reminding her it is there, until she whimpers. 

 

The small glass plug has a tapered end, and flares at the base. Sam is visibly turned on just from looking at it, and she can see the throb of his cock against his stomach, the tip a purplish red. It makes her mouth water. He sits back on the couch and lifts her onto his lap, settling her onto his cock, her pussy opening for him and taking him in one stroke. At the same time, he feeds the plug slowly into her ass, until it is snug against her body. 

 

Cait can't help but move, rocking against him, the feeling of being so _full_ \- and then he puts his thumb against her mouth and his voice breaks a little. "Suck, Cait."

 

She does, as if she's giving him a blowjob, her hungry lips closing around his thumb and her teeth scraping, her tongue flicking. He moans and lowers his hand to her clit. He presses with his thumb and middle finger, squeezing the flesh around her clit so that it's massaged from both sides.

 

As he starts a rhythm, fucking her in time with his hand playing with her clit, and she feels the heat of the toy deep inside of her and his thumb pressing between her lips, and it's as if in her mind - she's getting fucked by three men and they are all Sam - _oh god oh god god please_ she finally breaks, bearing down on him, his hand, his dick, the toy, everything breaking with a hot hot rush.

 

Everything in her is his, in that moment, her sweat, her dreams, her silly hopes, her tendons and muscles, her pussy, her stupid heart.

 

His.


	6. Chapter 6

It is mid-afternoon and outside, the wind still howls. Rain batters the windows of Cait's flat, and the air smells of lightning, of electricity crackling. The sky darkens with every breath and the clouds are pregnant with the storm, swollen and pugnacious. Sam is adding logs and bits of paper to the fire in the hearth and Cait stares at him as he works, thinking of that morning.

 

He'd run out to get breakfast and coffee from the bakery down on the high street, coming back soaking, shaking out his ginger hair like a puppy returning from its walk. In his hands were waxy bags filled with pastries and other carbohydrates. They'd eaten them in front of the fire for what seemed like hours, sharing bits with Eddie, the coffee a rich, dark roast. The croissants buttery and flaking every so slightly. Cait felt almost drunk with pleasure, her body sore and used and splendidly, thoroughly fucked. 

 

Afterward, he ran a bath for her in the claw-foot tub she'd spent an exorbitant and frankly ridiculous sum of money on, and the water was steaming and luscious. Cait sunk into it with a tiny whimper. When Sam strode back into the room carrying two flutes of sparkling wine, she cocked an eyebrow.

 

"Oi, where'd this side of you come from?"

 

"I have my secrets," he said. "I can be quite a romantic bloke, y'know."

 

"Sam, talking about how much you sweat every day isn't romantic," Cait said, accepting the flute. "Girls also tend to like men who spend less time in front of the mirror than they do." The water lapped at her breasts. it was oily, fragrant. Sam sat down on the plush velvet chair she kept in the corner and smiled at her.

 

"I'd be offended if I didna know you're trying to deflect, Balfe."

 

"Meaning?"

 

"Meaning it's throwing you for a bloody loop seeing me as more than just a mate." He paused and watched her face. "Isn't it?"

 

"Hardly. I'm naked right now." She said it tartly and ducked beneath the tiny wavelets of water, letting them flow over her hair, nose, lips. Coming up for air, she immediately drank deeply from the glass of champagne. The cool bubbles popped on her tongue. "And this is just a friendly shag."

 

"Ah," he nodded. "I see." He slowly put his glass down and stood, walking toward the bath. It was predatory, focused, intent. His eyes burned into hers and Cait suddenly felt a bit like she was pinned to the back of the tub, that blue spearing her in place. She put her glass up on the ledge, not sure what he was going to do.

 

"So just a friendly shag?" he knelt down and reached out, tracing her cheek with one finger.

 

"You know what I mean," she muttered.

 

"Aye, I do." His finger dipped below her chin, running over the wing of her collarbone, down to her shoulder, the notch of her elbow, then between her breasts, over the hot thud of her heart. The pad of his thumb caught her nipple, the swell of her breast, the slight curve of her tummy. Cait was breathing as evenly as she could, watching the path of that one torturous finger, as it dipped beneath the water and skated over her thighs, knees.

 

"Sam--" she said.

 

He dragged her from the water in one movement, hooking his arm around her back and hauling her over the tub into a kiss. It was deep and wet, his lips hungry and determined. Looping her arms around his neck, Cait leaned in, desperate to feel him against her. The way he was fully dressed and she was naked was oddly erotic, and the push and pull of his clothes against her skin made her so sensitive that she felt herself opening already, wanting, wanting.

 

"Sam please--" she moaned, trying to get his shirt off.

 

Supporting her weight with one arm, Sam reached down between them and drove two fingers inside of her. Cait shuddered at this, so shocking and base and primal. He bit at her lips, his breaths coming fast. "Is this what ye need, Cait?"

 

She clenched around him, sucking his fingers deeper and he groaned. "You're so wet, doll."

 

Cait bit him back. "I've been wet since the minute you walked in the door yesterday."

 

They locked eyes as she began to ride his fingers, moving up and down, forcing her clit against the rasp of his thumb, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nipples rubbing against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. His breaths mingled with the wet, slapping sound of her fucking herself with his hand, and soon she felt like she was shattering, trying not to come yet, wanting so much for it to go on and on, on and on.

 

"I want ye to come on my fingers, Caitriona," Sam said, his voice rough and dark. "I want to feel ye break on my hand."

 

"What else do you want?" she murmured, staring at him, quelling the urge to do just as he asked.

 

"I want to fuck ye until you beg me to stop, until ye can't take it anymore." His accent was so thick with desire that it was like syrup boiled down. "Until you're so open and wet that I can fuck you any way I want."

 

Cait quirked a brow, trying not to let him see that she was on the edge, just hovering at the brink. His words squeezing her pussy just like his fingers. "Any way?"

 

"Aye," he groaned and kissed her, his tongue licking her mouth. "I'd love to fuck your ass. See you on your knees, spread open. I'd fuck your cunt with my fingers at the same time, stick my other hand 'round and let you suck my thumb." He was rubbing himself against her now, both lost in the fantasy, his hand moving like lightning against her, three fingers now, plumbing her, ravaging her, , his thumb against her sore, throbbing clit, and Cait was lost, dissolving around him as his words filled the room. "Filling you in every way, till there's nothing else but me."

 

"Fuck me--" she gasped out and he pulled her out of the tub.

 

"Put your hands -- balance-- aye like that," he said and she braced herself, her palms gripping the far edge of the bath. She could hear him unzipping and then with one palm against her lower back, he fed himself into her. "Is that-- is that good? Is that what ye wanted?"

 

"Yes," she said with relief, pushing back a bit. "Yes. I want it--"

 

"How?"

 

"Hard," Cait growled. "Rough."

 

"The bath-- I might hurt you--"

 

"Rough," she said and fucked back on him for a moment, letting him feel every inch of her. "As hard as you can, Sam."

 

"Christ." 

 

And he did just that. Driving her into the edge of the bath and it was true, it did hurt, but it was delicious pain and Cait savoured the idea of the bruises she'd have tomorrow, all along her hipbones where Sam was gripping her, and at the top of her thighs as they hit the tub's rounded edge. He slammed in and out of her, twisting his hips, the head of his cock rubbing her g-spot with every drive, the heaviness of his balls slapping her clit with just enough tease to make Cait feel as if she was going crazy, was going to go crazy, was going to scream to please-- _please._  


Sam fumbled with something along the side of the bath, and then she felt two of his fingers, slick with oil, rimming her ass carefully.

 

"Yes," Cait moaned. He already seemed to know exactly what she needed, after such a short time. She thought again of Damien, singing that battle cry. _You wanna get burned you wanna get turned you wanna get fucked inside out_ and then his fingers were inside. A slight pop, and just sweet fullness, fucking in time with his dick, and he was groaning at the sight.

 

"I wish ye could see yourself," he rasped. "It's the fucking hottest thing I've ever--"

 

She squeezed around him and tears stung the back of her throat. It was too good and then suddenly, he picked up one of her legs, balancing her so that she was angled, and the lip of the bath began to rub against her clit with each stroke. Cait moaned out loud, the coolness of the porcelain contrasting with the heat of his cock and his tormenting fingers. She wriggled and he moved faster, and oh _god oh_ \--

 

"Yes, Cait," he groaned as he felt her. "Come with my fingers in your ass. I want to feel--"

 

She did, she did exactly what he wanted, she let him feel, she let him feel everything.

 

+

 

They are lying on their sides now by the roaring fireplace, naked and gleaming in the half-light, sharing gluten free toasts that she'd topped with _chevre chaud_ and sprinklings of chives and whole, roasted oily garlic cloves and she says, "Our breath..." and he kisses her between bites, laughing at her expression of mock-disgust. He tastes of rich, dark red wine. She'd opened a bottle she brought back from Amalfi and they are taking turns sipping straight from it. "Like heathens," Cait says. 

 

After the toasts are gone and she's pleasantly sated, drinking wine, warm from the fire and rushing with the heat of what they've done and will still do, she asks, "What are you up to tomorrow?"

 

"Might go for a walk of some sort."

 

"That's unlike you," she teases.

 

He grins  "How about you?"

 

"Ha ha," she says. "You only have one more day than me, don't gloat."

 

"I reserve the right," Sam says, brushing a crumb away from her lower lip. "Messy eater."

 

"I was hungry," she pouts. " _You_ wore me out."

 

"And the pleasure was all mine, I assure ye." He rolls onto his back, narrowly missing Eddie, who is dozing in the light of the fire. His voice changes. "What are we going to do, Balfe?"

 

Cait's throat closes suddenly, like a vise. She deliberately misinterprets his meaning. "I don't know, but all we _seem_ to be doing is eating."

 

"That's not _all_ we've been doing," Sam says, wiggling his eyebrows.

 

Cait gives him a dry look. "Regardless, I have to stop or those bloody corsets won't fit."

 

"You're tiny, Balfe," he says, tracing the lines of her ribs, down to her concave tummy. "In fact, I'd say you're smaller than ye were when we left for hols."

 

She doesn't answer the way she wants to. She wants to point out that she's been stressed. She wants to point out that she's been eaten up with guilt. She wants to tell him that she knows he's dating someone. She wants to hammer home that what they've been doing is cruel and that she'll never forgive herself, not ever. Not if she had a million years to work on her soul and what's in her heart, not ever ever. 

 

She wants to tell him that she dreams of a wolf with blood around her mouth. That the rivers are dark and deep. That the forest dreams its own dreams. Its own nightmares. That her heart continues to bray its ferocious beat. 

 

That she worries she'll never be content.

 

That she is terrified of what she feels, of what she wants to _decide._  


 

But she smiles instead, touching his lower lip. It is bitten and swollen from the memory of her kisses. He smiles back, simple and content, and so transparently _happy_ that her traitorous heart swells, and the nightmares remain at bay,

 

for now.

 

~


	7. Chapter 7

The air is sultry, still. It smells of bougainvillea, of sweet pineapple, the salt creamed on the edge of the drinks. Cait stands at one of the windows of the tent, staring out at the azure seas and swollen sun. Her hair is - to put it politely - a disaster, and she keeps tugging at its frizz mercilessly between sips of champagne, wishing only for the cool skies of Scotland.

 

"Curls bothering you?" Tony murmurs in her ear.

 

Cait flinches. Hopes he didn't notice. She turns slightly and smiles at him. "It's this bloody humidity."

 

"You look wonderful, don't worry so much." He is drinking a beer and for some reason, she can't stand the hoppy scent of it. His fingers cup her elbow and he leans in. "You're a bit tense. What's up?"

 

"Headache."

 

"Perhaps drinking isn't the best--"

 

"Okay _Dad_ ," she snips and downs the champagne in one swallow. "You know I can't stand--"

 

"I know, I know." He sighs and shrugs. "I'm gonna make the rounds. Best you stay here till your mood improves."

 

Caitriona bristles at the words but he's gone before anything stinging can leave her mouth. And then she feels it anew, the sick rush of guilt, the hot wave of it, like prickles in her chest, in her heart. If she places her palm over it, pressing down on her breast bone, she fancies she can actually _feel_ its persistent throb, circulating blood to her traitorous body. 

 

Snatching another glass of champagne off a passing waiter - sod what sodding _Tony_ thinks at the moment - Cait acknowledges that she isn't even angry at him. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say she's _furious_ but it's for reasons other than his condescension, which she's used to by now and has never much bothered her before. She's always gone for artist types, with chips on their shoulders and lanky cigarettes. Men who think they're a bit smarter than everyone else. She's always _liked_ that, for chrissakes. Liked the challenge of it. It comes with the territory regardless. It comes with dating in that circle - realizing it was never going to be quite perfect, but it could be good enough with distance.

 

It comes with the territory when you become quote unquote famous and your boyfriend has to carry your purse and avoid the glare of photographers. He gets a bit more put-upon and a bit more sarcastic, but that's okay because you rarely see him and you know how hard it is for him, and you feel guilty anyway. 

 

Because after all, you're not interested in being tied down as such. _Love one another but make not a bond of love._

It's been Cait's mantra for years _._

 

So she's not angry at him for being _him._ She's angry because of who is most decidedly _not,_ and that - _Jesus,_ it sends a spike through her heart so sharp that she gasps at the agony of it. 

 

  
_Sam._ Her eyes fly open, wondering if she said it out loud. Or was it just the beat of her blood?

 

The last night before her short break ended, they'd gone to bed in the early hours of the morning. They wore nothing. His skin seemed to glow in the darkness. He'd curled himself around her carefully, as if he was afraid she'd bolt. Eddie had clambered up on the pillows, settled behind their heads with a contented purr and snuffle. 

 

That, more than anything, made Cait’s belly squeeze in on itself. Eddie wouldn’t sleep with men in the bed. Girlfriends were fine - not preferred - but fine, and men made her grouchy. Made her retreat to the walk-in closet to curl up with shoes and resentment. But she settled down with Sam like he’d been in the family for eons, even gave his hair an affectionate bat with her paw. 

 

Cait had felt Sam's breath on her hair. His arm tugged her ever closer, his palm covering her heart.

 

"Ready for work, Balfe?"

 

"Shut it," she whispered and he laughed. 

 

"Such a snippy lass," he murmured, nuzzling the shell of her ear. He pressed kisses down her neck and Cait sighed, snuggling back into him. "I would've thought I'd fucked that out of you by now, doll."

 

"Sam," she protested halfheartedly, giggling. "You shit."

 

"You love it."

 

She shook her head. "Do not."

 

"Do so."

 

"This is going nowhere very quickly," she said, yawning.

 

"Well I do."

 

"What?"

 

"Love it." His voice was low, rough.

 

Caitriona stilled for a moment in his arms, certain she could hear every sound in the room like thunder. Striving for a normal tone, she said, "Not a complete surprise that you love yourself, Heughan."

 

"I think ye ken what I mean."

 

"I--" she paused. "I'd better sleep. I'm supposed to be climbing up some bollocks mountain tomorrow."

 

The moment collapsed in on itself as he chuckled and his chest rumbled a bit against her back. Cait felt absurdly relieved and strangely disappointed. "I'd sort you out at Fight Camp if you'd come along--"

 

"Life is too short to squat against walls, Sam," she said pertly.

 

He laughed again and cuddled her closer. "All right then. Sweet dreams, Caitriona."

 

And the dreams were sweet. When she woke up the next morning, she left him dozing in her bed, Eddie curled up like a cinnamon bun at the crook of his elbow. Cait had to stop herself from brushing her lips against the side of his forehead. A chaste kiss before real life began again. It seemed too real, too -- romantic, and so she settled for gently mussing the hair at his nape and leaving him a sticky note on the kitchen counter.

 

_didn't want to wake you, why should we both suffer?_

_see you on set. enjoy your break (wanker)_

_c_

_xoxo_

It had taken her 20 minutes to formulate the sentences. A cross between breezy and affectionate, without any heaviness of tone. It was harder than it seemed. She sweated over it and then realized how utterly bonkers she was acting and left the house, texting Eddie's sitter as she went. 

 

A week and a half later, and they still haven't spoken. Sam's break had extended far beyond what was originally thought, and Cait's shooting schedule intensified to the point that she stumbled into bed each night, clutching the pillow and cursing Claire and all of her fucking machinations to hell. 

 

And then _of bloody course_ Matt and Maril had decided on an impromptu elopement and Ron had decided that yes, everyone should go, and of course they’d said that it must be St. Lucia or nothing because apparently that was one of their favourite places in the world as a couple- and then of course Maril had invited Tony without asking Cait and of fucking course he’d said yes and now here she is, sweating beneath a thin silk dress, trying desperately to get drunk on champagne and avoiding Sam like it’s her job, which maybe it should be - maybe.

 

Maybe _that_ should be her job, instead of making a jolly sodding mess of just about everything.

 

Cait watches T now. He’s schmoozing with the crew. She’s always quite liked him - loved him, really - he’s comfortable and he likes to watch documentaries and they can talk for hours. He’s been her mate and her lover and her boyfriend for as long as she can remember. He’s been her fiance. He asked her to marry him while he was eating steak and she was slurping a bowl of gluten free spaghetti and she remembers that she had a noodle sticking out of her mouth when he showed her the ring. It wasn’t showy - just a small diamond. And she’d said yes without even really thinking because --

 

because he’d never --

 

Cait bites her lip as she gets to the meat of it, to the clicks of her heart, to the teeth and the bones and the mechanics. He’d never actually dismantled her.

 

He’d never disassembled her.

 

He’d never taken her for the fortress that she is and demanded more. _Love one another but make not a bond of love._

_He’d never expected anything of her._

The truth, when it hits her, there in that tent, with the smell of the tropics and sea salt heavy in the air, it wallops Cait in the belly and she gasps with it. Just like she almost gasped out Sam’s name. The truth the truth the truth. That she’s been so, so wrong and what is there to do now?

 

What is the answer?

 

Tony looks across at her and smiles. Apparently she’s forgiven. He motions to her. The band is playing a song she's never heard, but the melody is sweet and sad, and Cait feels almost unwilling to move. To tear herself away from this view of the sea. But she does, because he's her _fiance_ and she should _want_ to go to him.

 

As she makes her way through the crowd, nodding and smiling and wishing herself miles away, and the skirt of her dress swishes against her legs and her hair whispers against her ears, she sees him suddenly and almost stops dead. _Because that wouldn't be a giveaway, now would it, Balfe?_

He's wearing a tux, as all the men are, and his hair is shorter, darker red, and he takes her breath away, it's as simple and as primal as that. He's talking to Tony - for fuck's sake - and he looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. But the set of his shoulders and his jaw - Cait knows, he's angry or tense or both.

 

"Hallo," she says, aiming for nonchalant and falling somewhere around 'constricted'.

 

"Hi love," Tony says casually, looping his arm around her waist.

 

Cait can't look at Sam, she just can't. Her eyes fall in the region of his throat, tan against the white collar. He has a dime of sweat in the hollow there. Salt. Her body hurts and she says, "Shall we dance then?"

 

"Out of your strop?" Tony replies.

 

She flinches and tugs him away. "Very funny, _darling._ " Dragging him to the dance floor, she puts her arms around his neck because that's how it's done, and she stares fixedly at the tent wall. The music is swoony and slow, and the lyrics prickle her skin.

 

_Open the door_

_and show me your face tonight_

_I know it's true_

_No one heals me like you_

_You hold the key_

 

Tears sting the back of her throat and the singer is crooning _please say honestly, you won't give up on me, and I shall believe, I shall believe_.

 

Their eyes clash. Blue burns against blue. It doesn't take a genius - and Cait's fairly certain she isn't one - to see that Sam's furious. He radiates with it. Cait feels it down to her marrow, like the thunder outside that first night in her flat. Storms outside and in. She watches him turn on his heel and stalk off toward the opening of the tent and pulls herself abruptly out of Tony's arms, not thinking really.

 

"What is it?" 

 

"A bit of a headache," she says. "Still. I might get some fresh air."

 

"All right then," he says. "I'll mingle."

 

"Fine," she replies, distracted already.

 

She follows Sam's footsteps, out of the tent, into the gathering darkness. The air is heavy and sensual, almost like a second skin. She can hear the sounds of birdcall and the waves rocketing against the shore. Hurrying down the slope, past one of the private villas, Cait yelps when a hand reaches out from the blackness and snatches her arm.

 

"Bloody hell--" she squeaks and Sam pulls her into the shadows of the villa, pushing her against the clay wall. There are no sounds now but their mingled breaths, harsh in the evening air, and she stares up at him mutinously.

 

"What are you--"

 

"I wouldn't start, Caitriona. I should--" he breaks off and takes a step back, beginning to pace. "I'm so fucking furious I can barely look at ye right now."

 

"What did I do?"

 

"What did ye _do_?" Sam repeats. His voice is hoarse, almost vibrating with rage. "Ye brought _him_ to a place you _knew_ I'd be. You danced with him and put your hands on him and _smiled_ at him and I had to stand there and just take it like the mug you obviously think I am."

 

"I don't --" she pauses, trembling. "You _know_ I'm engaged, Sam. I don't know what you expect but -- but I can't not bring him places. This was just supposed to be--"

 

"What, Caitriona?" he asks. His eyes glow in the night and she feels as if there is a cord between them, hitched beneath their breast bones, tugging and threatening to destroy them both. "What was it _supposed_ to be? Just a good fuck? Ye thought you'd try me out and see how it went? How did I do? I remember making you cry once as you came. Was that what ye wanted from me?"

 

" _No_ ," she tries to keep her tone measured. "We always said it wouldn't go any farther than--"

 

"But it has," he says, raking one hand through his hair. "For me anyway, and for you too. If you weren't such a bloody coward, you might admit it."

 

"I'm not--"

 

"Oh yes, ye are. Ye can't even face how you feel for your fiance, let alone for me. This is a fucking joke."

 

"Sam--" her voice breaks and Cait feels as if he's hooking her with each word. Surely her insides will begin to spill out? Surely ruby red blood will spray his face? "I can't do this anymore. We need to end it."

 

"Fine. Go back to _him_." He turns away and says softly, "I could love you, you know."

 

"How can you say that to me?" Cait cries out and shoves him, the tears on her cheeks like hot stripes. Lashing her. "Don't you dare try to make this about love when you're fucking that blonde whenever you get the chance--"

 

He grabs her shoulders as she shoves him again. "I am not fucking anyone but you, Caitriona. You should know me better by now."

 

"Oh give me a bloody break," she laughs harshly, scrubbing her eyes with her palms. "I've known I couldn't trust you from the very beginning. As a mate, sure, but as a boyfriend? My God, you wouldn't be able to go two seconds without putting it in someone else."

 

He goes still. "Is that really what ye think of me? If so, fuck off back to him. I won't stop ye."

 

She turns away. "Fine. And you'll go back to her and this will just --"

 

"What?" he asks, grabbing her and pushing her back against the villa wall. "What? Go back to normal? Is that what you want-- really?"

 

"What else can we do?" she hisses at him. "We've fucked everything up. It's over."

 

"No."

 

"Yes--" she shoves him away and he shoves her back and the wall is cold and unyielding. 

 

"I love you, Caitriona."

 

"God, stop it--" she pushes him, blinded by tears. "Stop, you don't --"

 

"Aye, I do--" he says roughly, and kisses her, his mouth as hot as his words, his tongue and teeth on her, hurting her until she gasps out, grasping his head with her hands and pulling him fully into her. 

 

"We can't--" she moans. 

 

"Aye, we can. I'm going to fuck you right here."

 

She's already scrabbling with his belt, trying to loosen it as he rucks up her dress, pushing it to her waist and groaning. "Garters, Balfe? Are ye trying to kill me?"

 

"Yes," she breathes out and pulls him back to her lips, unable to get enough, biting him, pulling at his mouth until it deliciously sore and swollen, flushed with her lipstick. 

 

Sam falls to his knees and hooks one of her legs over his shoulder. "Hold on to me, doll."

 

"Just fuck me--"

 

"No. I want you to ride my face first."

 

"Oh God..." her head crashes against the wall as he sucks her pussy into his mouth, fully, without any preamble.

 

He cups her ass with his palms and lifts her onto him. She can feel his groans against her clit, hear the wet sounds of his tongue, the heat of his hands against her, the pull on her legs as he spreads them wider. All she can see above her are diamond stars in a vast desert of black and she feels as if she's standing on the edge of her own universe, throwing her arms open, embracing it, falling falling, the sensations almost unbearable, almost painful. 

 

Cait opens her mouth to beg him to stop because she can't take anymore _oh god_ and then he's there, kissing her, the taste of her pussy on his lips, and his fingers lift her knees and he slams inside of her, that sure, that fast, that _primal_. 

 

He fucks her up against the wall, her weight balancing on the thrusts of his cock, his steadying hands, and his mouth is wet on her neck, her throat, her ear. 

 

"I want ye to go back out there with my cum inside of you," Sam grates out, rearing back and surging into her, slamming her against the wall. "I want ye to feel as if you can barely walk because of how hard I've fucked you. I want to know my cum is dripping out of this beautiful pussy while ye talk and laugh and try to act normal."

 

Cait can't answer, can only cry out as he fucks her harder, faster. Her back is scored by the rough brick, by his frenzied movements, but she's beyond caring, beyond anything. His pubic hair is rasping her clit and the friction is too much, the feel of his heat and strength inside of her, the almost desperate way he's fucking up into her, like he couldn't ever get enough, his words - so dirty and raw and -- she's spasming around him and he groans out. "God yes, let me feel your cunt, Cait. Come on my dick."

 

With that, Cait breaks. When he feels her begin to orgasm, Sam moves faster, and the sensations are so intense that she pushes at him, pushing and pulling, coming so hard that she's crying out, biting his neck, sinking her teeth into the salt sweat there. 

 

Moments later, she takes stock. Her ripped dress, the blood on her lip, scratches on his face that she can't remember making, his raw mouth and they're still latched onto each other, breathing as one.

 

He's still inside of her, still moving slowly, and his words echo against the starlight _I love you, Caitriona_ and far away - but still so close, the wolf waits, blood around her mouth, the rivers so dark and deep.


	8. Chapter 8

In her dream, Cait is wearing white silk. 

 

The dress is long, brushing against her toes, and shimmery sleek, with long sleeves and a deep V neckline, showing the teacup curves of her breasts, the glow of her throat. Her hair is scraped back, with little braids at her crown. She looks down at her hands. They are as ivory as the keys of a piano, and shake with -- what? 

 

The urge to move mountains. To roar. To be fucked. To be great, to be unafraid.

 

The sand is spongy beneath her feet. It glimmers like crushed diamonds in the moonlight. As the waves lap at her feet, Caitriona begins to walk. Slowly at first, but soon, she is diving deep, her arms slicing through water so black it is like embracing endless night. In her dream, she can breathe underwater, and it is one of those surprising non-surprises. As enchanting as a fairy tale, but seemingly sensible.

 

Her breath sends bubbles like bathyspheres to the surface and though she knows without knowing why she is here, fathoms deep beneath the seas, she doesn't want to voice it.

_Sam Sam Sam_

 

So her heart does it for her, echoing like a drumbeat. His name. And then without warning, water rushes into her mouth with the violence of millennia behind it, and she chokes on it, the taste like blood and salt and she is sinking

 

Caitriona wakes up with a whimper in the half light of morning. For a moment, she is disoriented, but then she feels Eddie's claws dig into her knee, and she remembers. She's home. For a short while. A little break. She sits up, grimacing at the soaked sheets, at her wet hair and limbs shined with sweat. 

 

"Hideous, Balfe," she murmurs to herself. Because who else would she say it to, after all? 

 

Stumbling slightly - her legs are still trembling in the aftermath of the nightmare - she turns on the shower and leans her forehead against the glass. Blowing a breath, she traces his initials in the fog before she can stop herself. The water is steaming and not for the first time, she thanks the universe for her rainfall shower head. It's like stepping into another earth. One as wet and heated and jungle bright as the rain forest. 

 

Her stomach suddenly cramps, and Cait folds in on herself gently, sitting down against the azure tiles, letting the hot water envelop her. It's the first time she's felt warm in days, and unbidden, the memories pummel their way in, knocking down her turrets and battlements, dismantling her brick by brick until she's laid bare, remembering.

 

The beach was silent, and still. In the distance, Cait saw a bonfire and a few couples, but for the most part, she and Sam were alone, and she felt both full and empty at the same time, as if she was teetering on the edge of an avalanche.

 

"We could have been caught so easily," she whispered.

 

He was beside her, but they weren't touching. "But we weren't."

 

"No," Cait acknowledged. "Not this time. Sam -- you know we need to stop this."

 

"Why?" his voice was flat.

 

"We've already hurt so many people. I never wanted -- I never thought I'd be this person." She bit her lip, tasted copper pennies in her mouth, stinging and bright. "I can't break his heart."

 

"So you'll break mine?"

 

Her eyes shot to his. "Don't be daft, Heughan. I could never--"

 

"You will. I always knew ye would." He said it softly, without rancor. "From the first moment I saw ye. You walked into the room and it was as if -- 'twill sound a bit silly but I just never knew. Never until then. I saw you and I was completely and utterly... wrecked. You wrecked me, Caitriona."

 

"But--" she was shaking so hard that she was afraid her teeth were rattling. "You never-- you never said anything to me."

 

"I did." He turned and cupped her cheek with his hand. It nearly undid her and she fought the swell of tears, the rush to her heart. "I did every time I looked at you, Balfe."

 

"Sam, _please_ ," she gasped out, leaning into his palm. Her eyes pleaded with him. "Please don't. We have to stop this -- if it all goes pear shaped, everything would end -- and how would we work together? We can't do this, not ... not for real."

 

"I thought this _was_ real," he said.

 

For the first time since their fight by the villas, he sounded angry. Cait was ashamed that it sent a thrill branching from her nipples straight to her pussy. Her body - her traitorous body - it still remembered his furious, desperate thrusts, the way he held her speared against the wall with his cock, the way he told her to come around him. It remembered, and she hurt with it. 

 

"You know what I mean. I can't do this anymore. It's killing me. You must see that." She stepped away from him, her feet sinking into the soft sand. "I hate ... hate feeling this way. Out of control. Like any moment--"

 

"Any moment what?"

 

"Any moment I'm going to collapse, like a foolish girl." She was snapping now, angry with herself. Angry with him. "I can't afford -- this is our chance, Sam. We can't fuck up this show. We can't fuck up our lives and our relationships over such a passing thing--"

 

"A _passing thing_ ," he repeated, the words dripping with disdain. "If that's truly how ye feel, Cait, I wish ye'd told me sooner. I would have ended this before it had even begun."

 

"I'm --" she was frightened suddenly, as he turned away. She grasped his arm. "Sam wait-- I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to be flippant-"

 

"But ye were," he bit off, not looking at her. "And I think you're right. This isn't going anywhere. Why risk the show when we both ken full well this would've died off soon enough. 'Twas just a good fuck between mates, nothing more."

 

Though she'd been saying about the same thing for ages, Cait felt his words like a stab. As if he'd taken a knife and carved into the secret, scared place inside of her that only he had been able to reach. Amazed that she hadn't fallen to her knees with agony, she stared up at him. At the line of his jaw, the dark red of his hair. It was a face she knew as well as her own. 

 

He said nothing more. When he was gone, back to the party, Cait knelt down in the sand and vomited clear champagne and it washed away with the tide, her dress soaking at the knees, her sobbing silent, her body wracked and yet, the stars continued to burn, so very far away.

 

~

 

"Might I ask when this hostage situation is likely to end?"

 

Cait scowls in the general direction of the voice on the other end of the line. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

 

Donal makes a scoffing noise. He sounds a bit like Eddie when he's got his back up. "You haven't left your bloody flat in days."

 

"I'm hibernating." She pauses. "And how would you know anyway?"

 

"Well--"

 

"Oh for--" _her sodding sister._ Cait was really going to murder her this time. Not like the last time with the thing at the market. No, this was for real. "What did she tell you?"

 

"She told me the truth, you dumb bunny." Donal takes a sip of something that Cait assumes is wine. She drinks from her own glass. They normally like to pretend they're at a pub while they chat, and while it may be earlier where he is, D is never one to turn down a bevvy. "That you're doing that _thing."_  


Though Caitriona knows full well what he means, she frowns. "I'm not _doing_ anything and the pair of you are too bloody sneaky for your own good."

 

"Whatever. Just tell me what the fuck is going on so Uncle Donal can fix it."

 

"That is too creepy for words and I will _not_ tell you anything because _nothing_ is going on--"

 

"Cut the bullshite, princess, would you please. This call is costing me like fifty fucking million quid per second --"

 

"I slept with Sam."

 

He exhales and gulps back the wine. She can hear him swallowing and her belly twists in on itself, like a snake eating its tail. 

 

"Heughan?"

 

"No, Sam Waterston. Who the hell do you think I mean."

 

"Balfe if you'd shagged Sam Waterston I would be beyond chuffed. The man is a legend."

 

Cait huffs out a breath and tries not to laugh. Every time she even smiles, she feels as if she'll dissolve. Like salt into the sea. "Well? Any smart ideas?"

 

"Keep on doing it? What do you want me to say?"

 

"Oh that's wonderful advice. I'm engaged."

 

"Are you?" he asks. "Because I'm fairly certain I see Tony more than you do, love."

 

"I like it that way." 

 

"That should tell you something."

 

"You know what I mean. It's--"

 

"Safe. Boring. Not likely to end in disaster."

 

"That's a lovely way to describe my relationship, thanks ever so much you shit."

 

"How else would I describe it? Not exactly boiling over with passion now is it." Donal pauses and his voice softens. "Take a drink of wine and listen up my dove. I'm going to be quite honest with you now which I know isn't my specialty--"

 

"Hah!"

 

"Tony is not right for you."

 

Caitriona pulls the phone away from her ear for a moment and stares at it. Eddie watches her, befuddled. In the grate, the fire spits and sparks and outside, rain falls in rivulets down the window pane, and yes, he did say that. 

 

"Did you really just--"

 

"You just looked at the phone didn't you."

 

"No." She's furious. "How could you say that about him? He's your mate!"

 

"So what? He doesn't have to be your fiance." Donal chuckles a bit. "You know I'm right. Caitriona, I adore your very presence on this planet, but do you really think that you have the slightest idea of who you should be with? You choose these-- well, frankly, wankers --"

 

"Donal--"

 

"Lemme finish, almost done. You pick these guys who will never really get you and for that matter, who live as far away as fucking possible, and then you swan around like you're committed and happy, and meanwhile the poor shite's thinking he's got it made - he's shagging a supermodel - but you've closed off yourself, so he's never gonna get in. Just the very _fact_  that Sam got you to make such a colossal mistake when you've always been so controlled tells me loads about him, and all of it's good. Fantastic, actually."

 

She's not quite sure where to begin, so she starts with the obvious. "You do think it was a mistake, then?"

 

"Well, let's be clear - cheating on your fiance isn't a very good look, but I mean I have eyes and all for which to behold that stud you call a co star, so I can understand--"

 

"Not helping in the slightest, you git." 

 

"I am helping, you're just not listening." Donal can be infuriating when he wants to be, and she feels like screaming down the phone. "You already know what you want, Cait. That's why you've holed up in your flat and you're living on nothing but gluten free crisps, am I right?"

 

"And guacamole," she says mutinously. "And wine."

 

"Good show."

 

"So what do I want then, if you're such a bloody expert?"

 

"You want someone who's going to appreciate what he has," Donal says simply. "You want someone who will get to the guts of the goddess that is Caitriona Balfe. I'm afraid Tony's not it, my dove. As much as I like the guy, and I do. But you know. I can tell you know."

 

Her voice is thick with tears, and Cait whispers the next words. They feel like a betrayal. They are a betrayal. But.

 

"I do. I know."

 

And then, a memory presses against her breast bone, insistent. 

 

Her stumbling steps back to the wedding tent. She smelled of ocean, of sex, of Sam. Already she felt purplish flowers petaling beneath her skin from the punishment of his fingers, of being held wide for him. For the hunger of his mouth, for the voraciousness of his cock, fucking her into the rough brick, marking her.

 

T was standing by the bar and Cait made her way over, conscious of her appearance. He looked her up and down. "Went for a swim, did you love?"

 

"I sat for a bit on the beach," she said. Not really a lie. 

 

"Headache gone?"

 

"Almost," she said, forcing a smile. "Could do with another drink actually."

 

"I'll sort it."

 

Her eyes scanned the room, and there he was. Sipping whisky against the far wall and chatting with Matt and Maril. They were all laughing. A livid scratch marked where she'd clawed him. He looked perfectly comfortable, perfectly sedate, as if he'd forgotten her already. As if what he'd said was true. _A good fuck between mates._  


"Dance?"

 

"All right then."

 

As they danced, Cait looked at her fiance and felt a roaring emptiness open up inside of her. Like a yawning cavern, obliterating everything in its path. Avoiding his gaze, she glanced over his shoulder and saw Sam watching her. His stare was sardonic. It was an expression she didn't recognize. He raised his glass slightly and spun very deliberately away to talk to the crowd around him. It was a goodbye, and she knew it, and he knew it.

 

She wanted desperately to cry out, double over, rush to Sam and tear at him, grab his face and kiss his mouth and bite him, taste his sweat, the whisky on his breath. She wanted to tell him that she could feel his cum in her underwear, that it was dripping from her body as she stood here, feet away.

 

She wanted to drag him away and fuck him. Ride him and feel his heat and strength, feel his hands bruising her hips, feel him fucking up inside of her, his hair rasping her clit, his heavy cock filling her, his teeth at her breasts. Hear him gasping out _Cait,_ his voice rough and sexy and breaking with every frenzied movement. 

 

She wanted to tell him that she was terrified she'd never forget the feeling of being so completely _his_ , like a brand, burning and throbbing, an endless, endless torment.


	9. Chapter 9

The pub is in the West end, near the hospital where they're filming Claire as a daft-handed surgeon (tying up her affairs and running back to her man when she's not busy stitching up after tumor removals), and the afternoon is one of those brilliant ones in Glasgow. The air smells faintly of wood smoke and the sky is the deep golden of split oranges.

 

Cait is curled up on the only corner bench. It's a coveted spot, plush and squashy, with the added bonus of a dozing puppy and the hissing, crackling fire to her right. The dog has one paw on the socked foot tucked beneath Cait's bum, and seems to be drooling on her jeans. Not that she much cares, given he might just be the sweetest little noodle that ever walked on four legs. 

 

"You're just a lovebug aren't you, yes you are," Cait murmurs, absently stroking the silken ears. "Would you like to hear some poetry?"

 

Snores emit from the tiny mouth, and Cait smiles. Her face feels odd even as she does it, and that - in itself - is terrifying. She, who cracks the biggest, brightest grins this side of the Atlantic - she's gotten out of the habit.

 

After all, it's not as if Claire is enjoying too many belly laughs, what with twenty years of misery pressing like mountains on her cracked, frightened heart. Sometimes, embodying Claire is great fun and sometimes -- sometimes, Caitriona thinks that Diana must be a sadist. The idea of two people being so -- _connected_ , the physicality of it, being ripped apart and forced to live without the other half of their hearts - the hurting bodies, the faces in the crowds - _could it be him?_ \- always wondering, wishing, yearning, until Cait thinks they both must have been shuddering with the force of it, a longing so visceral that it feels almost like balancing on the edge of orgasm.

 

Chasing a ghost.

 

Not that she can relate. Not that she has any true idea.

 

It's not as if one of the reasons her mouth is unused to smiling is that Sam has stopped trying to make her laugh.

 

The incessant texts have stopped.

 

_6am: what's up mrs fraser?_

_11:34am: i call coffee. where have you bean all my life lol_

_1:13pm: stop all the bollocks acting and get back here. you're missing the best part. i think he just confessed._

_2:09pm: did you know what the eggplant emoji means?_

  
_2:10pm:_ thirty five eggplant emojis

 

It's not as if she understands the physical loss that Claire experiences. It's not as if most nights she folds in on herself, clutching behind her knees and rocking slightly, trying to dull the insistent, clawing ache. To climb onto his body. To taste the salt of him in her mouth. To press her lips at the hollow of his throat, where his shirt opens and he is warm and damp. To feel his hand on her back when they go through doors. His palm on her breast, just lightly dragging her nipple until she wants to squirm to find some sort of _relief._  


 

To watch him feeding himself into her, the way his eyes go night-black the moment she fucks back onto him, takes him as deep as he can give it to her. 

 

Because she's always taken anything he could give her. Wanted it all. Any dirty thing he could dream up. She's felt him everywhere in and on her body. Drank him down and let him touch her and taste her and finger fuck her until she trembled with it.

 

And still, still, she's wrecked with the absence of that. The cord between them, hooked beneath their breast bones.

 

After filming - and thankfully they've only had three scenes together since St. Lucia - he acted as if she was an acquaintance. Nothing more. Nothing less. She could be the person who brought craft service. And she found she didn't know what to do with her body when it was so far from his body. It felt awkward, strange, like she was missing a limb, and she flailed a bit the first few times, avoiding the curious stares, fleeing with her phone like she had important things to do. People to see.

 

When in reality, she was alone. 

 

It was interesting - in a purely scientific way - how attached you could get to a person, after only three short years. How you came to depend on them to get the knots out of your back after a challenging scene. How you forgot to get only one latte in the morning, consequently showing up with two and feeling foolish. How you turned often to say - _did you see that?_  - only to realize the person wasn't there. Might never be again.

 

And the agony of it.

 

Cait ducks her head, battling back the hot cramp in her belly that seems to always be there now. The bartender delivers another carafe of wine to the table. Table service is not common at The Belle, but she's been such a fixture the past few weeks that she believes they must have a soft spot for her. And the twenty quid a carafe she's paying, of course.

 

"Cheers," she murmurs, pouring herself another glass. 

 

"Perhaps some nuts or somethin, love?"

 

"No but thank you," she replies. The idea of eating. God. She trembles with the nausea and the puppy - who she thinks is called Bert - opens one eye to gaze at her.

 

"Bert?"

 

The little tail wags and she dissolves again into a smile. "Finally awake. So what are your thoughts on the poetry?"

 

Bert wags his tail again. _Thump thump thump_. He licks her hand companionably. 

 

Cait opens the book. It is well thumbed, her collection of Anne Sexton's poems. There is a large tea stain over one corner. It falls open at _That Day_ and she whispers the last few lines to the dog, to herself.

 

"Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time

that I would be pierced and you would take root in me

and that I might bring forth your born, might bear

the you or the ghost of you in my little household.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed

but this is the typewriter that sits before me

and love is where yesterday is at."

 

Tears burn as she finishes the poem. "A bit morbid, she was."

 

Bert seems to agree. Yawning, he falls back to sleep with a contented sigh.

 

"Well you're fantastic company," she murmurs, closing the book and going back to rubbing his tummy. 

 

"Talking to yourself?"

 

Caitriona flinches. Not so much at his voice, but at the cool tone. One she's never heard before and doesn't want to ever hear again, if she's being honest. Which - admittedly lately - has not been her strong suit. Looking up, she takes him in. He's come from the gym, that much is evident. His hair curls damply at his nape and his t-shirt is the one he normally wears - black, close-fitting, a bit thin from too many washings. 

 

He looks so beautiful that she has to bite her nails into her palms to keep from touching him. 

 

"Talking to Bert actually," she replies finally and motions to the chair opposite. "Feel like joining us?"

 

"Not really."

 

She winces again and shrugs. "Suit yourself."

 

He laughs a bit. It is a low, mean sound. "Ye can't have it both ways. Even you must ken _that._ "

 

"Even _me_?" Cait feels like snarling. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 

"Take it as you like." 

 

She tries to breathe out, calm down, not fly at him like the witch she feels like being. She wants to add to the scratch that is still visible on his face. She wants to bite his mouth and his neck, sink her teeth into him.

 

"Sam, we should-- we should probably chat a bit. Please, sit down. I--"

 

He leans his palms on the table. "Cait, I dinna think you're getting me here." He pauses, his accent thickening with each word. "I want nothing to do with you. Beyond our professional commitments, I would prefer to pretend ye don't exist. Is that clear enough for ye?"

 

She swallows back the sudden rush of hot tears. Her face flushes with blood. Embarrassment, horror and so much anguish that she feels she could double over and still she'd have to cry out with the pain. "You don't--" she stops. "How can you just-- Sam, we were best mates."

 

"And now we're not."

 

" _Please_ ," she begs and for a moment, just a glimmering second, she sees a softening in his eyes. "Please sit down. I just want to explain."

 

"Have ye left him?"

 

"What?"

 

"Don't pretend ye didn't understand. Have. You. Left. Him."

 

Caitriona shakes her head. "No-- I--"

 

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other." He straightens and shrugs his shoulders. 

 

"But that's not the end--"

 

"I think you'll find it is."

 

"No." 

 

"Goddamn it." He makes an exasperated sound.

 

Her hand reaches up, unbidden, as if to touch him and he steps back. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. If I could go back, I would never hurt anyone as much as I have. I've done such horrible things - lied and cheated and I never thought of myself as a person who would ... be so cruel. I always thought I was so smart and logical about it all."

 

"What does being smart have to do with cruelty, Cait? Perhaps ye should think more about _why_ ye did those things. I'm not proud of what we did either - but at least I ken _why."_  


 

"I am, I'm working on it. Please just sit down so we can--"

 

Suddenly he leans in and looks her dead in the eye. "Do ye not understand, Caitriona? I would have given you _everything_."

 

It is so unexpected that this time, she does let out a sound when the words cleave her in two. As he spins on his heel and stalks away, out of the pub and into the Glasgow evening, she finally lets the salt bloom from her eyes, finally, truly understands what she must do.

 

What the only answer is. She had asked herself in that wedding tent, she had asked the question. Now she knows. 

 

So, as Bert slumbers on and Anne's words rest between the pages of the book, annihilating and fierce, like the wolf in the woods - ever present, ever waiting - Caitriona picks up her phone and books a flight to New York.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Caitriona is regretting wearing a skirt. 

 

The wind is gusting a bit, and leaves fly past her - thankfully, booted - feet. But her legs break out in goosebumps and she hugs herself, staring up at the blood red door of the building. It looks somehow unyielding in the half light of the afternoon. She’s listening to Damien on her iPhone for no good reason other than she feels like wallowing.

 

_We might kiss, when we are alone_

_When nobody’s watching_

_We might take it home_

_We might make out when nobody’s there_

_It’s not that we’re scared, it’s just that it’s delicate_

And how delicate it all was. Her heart. Sam’s. Tony’s. She thinks of them, beating out there in the world, the blood and guts of it all, the tenderness and bravery and cowardliness and everything that they are and will be.   She thinks of T’s face when she told him.

 

“I have to give you this ring back."

 

He had stared at her as if she was speaking another language for a moment. Stared at the proffered ring. Her hand was trembling with the very action of holding it out for him, at the blasphemy of giving something so precious back. Something that had been offered with dreams attached to it. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it and then touched her fingers. He took the ring, palmed it quickly. 

 

“I was half expecting this."

 

“You… what?” Cait almost laughed she was so startled. But she caught herself just in time. If there was anything T hated, it was being the butt of a joke he hadn’t known was being told. “How— I thought—"

 

“Why are you so surprised?” he looked wearily at her and went to pour a drink at the bar. He didn’t offer her one. “You think I’m a complete fucking idiot, love? You think I didn’t notice the way you looked when you came back from… what was it? _Sitting_ on the beach?"

 

She flushed immediately. Prickles traveled up from her chest to her throat and beyond. “You didn’t say anything."

 

“Was waiting for you to, frankly.” He took a large sip of vodka. “Your dress fucking ripped and bruises on your waist when you were changing and the goddamn _smell_ — we might never fuck anymore but I still recall that at least."

 

“Can I have some of that?” was all Cait said. It was all she could say. 

 

He poured her one, over ice. Clinked their glasses with a sardonic look. “So you really, seriously thought I didn’t know? I should’ve had an inkling when you were in such a bloody strop when I showed up but—"

 

“I wasn’t… it wasn’t because of that. God, this is hideous.”

 

She paused and took a fortifying sip. The liquor punched her straight between the eyes. Made her think of Cannes, and that - more than anything - reminded Caitriona of what she was trying to accomplish in his apartment. What she’d come to believe was the only answer. What was in her _blood._  

 

“I do— I do love you. You know that."

 

“Please don’t patronize me. I’ve known for a quite a while that you didn’t truly _love_ me, Cait. And I fooled myself into thinking it was great."

 

“It … it _was_ great. We..."

 

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “When you got Outlander, I was happy for you. And then I— I saw something online. It was you and _him_  and while I knew it was supposed to be for the fans, there was this _look_  in your eyes. He dragged you away like it was some sort of fucking _joke_ and I remember knowing that you felt some way about him that you’d never feel for me. The way you looked. Christ. You were… resplendent."

 

Caitriona blanched at his words. She hadn’t even needed to tell him about Sam. He had known. He had seen straight through everything, and here she was, cold and small and a traitor. A cheater and a liar. But she had to protest because she couldn’t — she couldn’t _fathom_ this.

 

“That was ages ago — why didn’t you ever? Why didn’t you say anything? Jesus Tony, we’ve been together for… that was fucking forever ago."

 

“I’m not sure that matters now.” He smirked. “Do you want to be absolved, Cait? Tell me you didn’t love him from the start? Fuck him in the trailers?"

 

“I _didn’t.”_

“What? Fuck him or love him?"

 

She was helpless, pinned by his stare, like a wriggling fish. “Neither. And I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. This really doesn’t… I know you don’t believe me, but it has nothing to do with him. It has to do with _me."_

“The ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, is it?"

 

Cait took another drink of the snow-cold vodka. Longer this time. She walked over to the couch and leaned against it. Something to rest her body against. She was so tired from the flight, from the cab ride, from the hurting, hurting, hurting. She looked at her former fiance and wished so much that she’d done things differently. 

 

“It is me, Tony. I’m … there’s something I’ve never … I’ve never opened up with you. I’ve never opened up with anyone."

 

“I know.” He laughed again and flopped down on the green velvet ottoman that had always reminded Cait of Monica’s from _Friends._ It struck her suddenly that she’d rarely - if ever - see that ottoman now. She’d been a fixture in this apartment for so many years, and like dust, it was gone. Tony pressed his glass against his forehead and frowned slightly. “Jesus, Cait, you never even… I could never make you come. You just— I mean, I’m not saying it’s not my lack of skills or whatever bollocks but… you never really let me _see_ you."

 

“Is that all my fault?” she asked softly.

 

“Suppose not.” He chuckled. Not a happy sound. There was still quite a lot of laughter for a break up, Cait reckoned. Ray LaMontagne was playing in the background and she could hear snippets of crowds shrieking, of languid, sorrowful guitar, of his voice, like cut glass over molasses, and the lyrics, so plain and spare and yet so fucking _painful._

_don’t lose faith in me_

_and I will try not to lose faith in you_

_don’t put your trust in walls_

_cause walls will only crush you when they fall_

Like Anne Sexton and Damien. Truth tellers, all. Cait felt faintly drunk. Too many hours on a plane, and little sleep. But she knew, with blinding clarity, that she would not be climbing into bed there tonight. She would not be, ever again. It was as simple as it was heartrending. In her heart, a decision had been made.

 

“So it’s him then?"

 

“It doesn’t come down to that."

 

“Did you fuck him at the wedding?"

 

“Yes. I’m… I won’t say—"

 

“Don’t. That would be… don’t say you’re sorry. I couldn’t hear that.” Tony shrugged. “You wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t know the consequences. I do know you somewhat, Cait. I know you don’t do things without realizing what will happen later. You guessed it would end this way."

 

Had she? 

 

“You did,” he answered as if she’d spoken out loud. “What I don’t— why not just chuck me when you fell for him?"

 

Cait was exhausted and couldn’t lie anymore. “I didn’t know I had."

 

“Right. Well. I think you should go, don’t you?"

 

“Yes. Yes, I should."

 

It was as easy as snipping off a limb. As simple as being torn apart by a shark. There would be more reckonings to come, that was certain, but for now - it was over and it was the way it should be. Like a death and a rebirth. As she climbed into bed at the Ritz that night, pulling the covers up to her chin, it had felt inevitable.

 

It _still_ feels that way. Cait sits on the bench now, freezing and sick with nerves, rattling her knees up and down like bones in a cage. Clutching her leather jacket around her breasts, cursing herself for her thin t-shirt and mini skirt, cursing herself for for the weeks since St. Lucia, the idiocy of not facing up to her own heart.

 

Not _knowing_ her own heart. 

 

Something skitters on the edge of her consciousness and she looks up, to the left. Sam is approaching, distracted, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looks pale, damp from a shower. Cait yanks the earbuds out, cutting Damien off in mid wail. Sam's wearing the clothes she adores so much - worn jeans, t-shirt, denim jacket. He has sunglasses on and she can’t see his eyes to know when he spots her. But his shoulders tense and he almost stops, almost.

 

But he doesn’t. Sam continues, climbing the stairs to his door. Cait follows him. “Can I come in?"

 

“No."

 

“I need to talk to you."

 

“That’s naught my concern."

 

Caitriona watches as he fits his key into the lock. His hand shakes as he does it. Her belly squeezes and she reaches out, wanting to touch his back but not sure how it will be received. So she just says it, baldly and bravely.

 

“I left him."

 

Sam stills. Looks down. He heaves a breath and then looks back at her and she stares into the black pools of his sunglasses, waiting.

 

He shrugs. “Good for ye, Cait. Look was that all? I have shit to do."

 

“Sam…"

 

He laughs suddenly. It is a mean sound, not like him. “What did ye expect? That I’d fall to my knees in gratitude?” He pauses and opens the door. “You had your chance in St Lucia, Caitriona."

 

A flush of pure, hot, clarifying rage comes to Cait’s face, rushing like rivers over her breasts and throat, until she’s sure as she’s as red as a field of poppies. “So that’s it then, is it? I did what you asked--”

 

Sam whirls around and his gym bag knocks against her arm. “I did _not_ ask ye to do anything. What I did, like a fucking idiot, was lay myself _bare_  and you. broke. my. heart, Caitriona.” He enunciates every word until they flay the very air between them and then holds up his hand. “So like I made clear on that bloody beach, I am _done._ Whether or not you chucked that arsehole you call a fiance is not my business."

 

He turns to walk through the door and Cait shoves him. It’s involuntary almost. She feels as if she’s outside of her own body, watching herself in fascination and horror. She shoves him and follows him in and he spins around, whipping off his sunglasses and dropping his bag in one fell swoop. 

 

“What the _fuck_ —"

 

“You don’t get to just have the last word, Sam. It’s not that simple. I broke up with him _for you_."

 

“So?” his eyes flicker and he shrugs again, a maddeningly casual gesture. “What did ye think I’d do? Roll over and beg? Cause that’s what these wankers do when you call? I’ll never be _that_ , Caitriona."

 

“I don’t want you to be!” she cries out. Glasgow roars outside, but they are still in his hallway, where it is half-dark. The door is open behind her and she closes it with one hand. Best the street doesn’t hear this. She’s befuddled and hot and cold and furious and all she wants to do is curl up in the crook of his neck - her _nook_ \- and ask him to love her. Love her _again._ But she just looks at him, her Sam, and trembles. “I thought you’d be happy, at least. I thought you wanted me."

 

“Christ.” He scrubs his hands over his eyes. “Ye expected me to be _happy_? Do ye not know what these weeks have been like? I’ve been at the fucking gym more than I’ve been at home just trying to—“ He pauses and looks at her finally. Blue clashes with blue and it burns. “Just trying to _forget._ Just for a moment so I could get some sleep but it hasn’t been working and Jesus — Cait, if you think I’m a saint, and I can take torture, well ye’ve got the wrong man. This has been—"

 

“For me too,” she says quietly, so soft, soft. “I haven’t been eating."

 

“Aye. You’re skinny."

 

“And I’ve just— wanted so much to come over here and…"

 

“And what, Cait?"

 

She looks down at the floor, at her boots. Blush in her cheeks and _oh god_  this is more than she’s ever dared admit. Ever dared voice. “ _Feel_ you."

 

“Ye mean fuck me?"

 

Her pussy clenches and she takes a faltering step. “Yes."

 

“I’m sorry. I canna do this again."

 

Cait is almost interested in the way she stays standing, while inside, she feels as if she’s been carved with a blade. The cavern opens up again - the one she saw when she looked at Tony - and this time it is unfathomably dark. Interminable. Like infinity, but an endless loop of agony instead of stars, and she wonders - is this what she did this for?

 

Is this why she finally confronted her rivers, her wolf, her pulsing bloody heart, braying outside of her body? Is this what was beyond the snowy woods? This complete, utter _calvary?_

 

Because if it’s not Sam, _her_ Sam, who could it ever be?

 

“Okay… I—“ she swallows back the stinging salt and the vomit she feels welling, and turns back toward the door. Places her hand on it and feels it thrum with the city outside. “I just— you should know I love you. And I’m- I’m _so sorry—"_

His palm slams into the door above her head. Cait starts and feels him, hot behind her. The thrumming of his breaths, blood. 

 

“Say that again.” His voice is low, rough. 

 

She shivers with it, trying not to press back, hardly daring to hope. “I’m sorry."

 

“Not _that.”_ Sam’s forehead falls against her shoulder. “Tell me ye love me, Caitriona."

 

“I love you."

 

“God,” he murmurs and his hand moves past her and to the door knob. She has a sudden flicker of fear - is he going to throw her out - but he locks it, and _oh_.

 

“Ye’ve no idea how much I’m going to make you pay for the last few weeks,” he says hoarsely, his teeth against her neck. 

 

Her body registers his words and everything goes white hot, and he whirls her around, pressing her arms up, pinning her to the door with the weight of his body.  

 

“Are ye ready for that?” he asks, nipping her bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth. 

 

“I thought—"

 

“What, Balfe?"

 

“I thought you were done with me."

 

“Oh, Cait.” He laughs but it is choked and he presses his mouth flush with hers and they both groan. “I haven't even begun with you yet."


	11. Chapter 11

Her teeth snare his bottom lip and he hisses. She works it for a moment, almost drunk on the feeling of this. The taste of him, salt sweat from the gym and the flush of blood beneath the pinkness of his mouth. His body against her body. The cold air between them eradicated. The smell of his flat, woodsmoke and apricots and rich, dark coffee.

 

And _Sam, Sam._  


He groans a bit as she releases his lip. It is now beestung full and so delicious she considers sucking on it again, just because she can. But he growls beneath his breath and his hands tighten around her wrists, still held above her head. 

 

“I’m still angry— nae, _furious_ ,” he says, leaning down and dragging his tongue over her ear lobe, down her neck. 

 

“I know,” she whispers, trying not to grind into him, trying not to cry out. Remembering her thoughts on Claire and Jamie’s separation.  _S_ _huddering with the force of it, a longing so visceral that it feels almost like balancing on the edge of orgasm._  


“Do ye? I’m not sure ye do.” He bites down on the soft flesh behind her ear. “I’d like to redden this beautiful ass of yours for what you’ve put me through the past few weeks."

 

Cait gasps out in supplication. She wants so much to rake her hands through the damp curls at his nape. “Sam, let me —"

 

“Let you?” he laughs low. “I think ye’re a bit confused as to what’s happening here, Balfe."

 

She shivers with the deliciousness of him calling him by her last name. Such a small thing, but she feared she’d never hear it again. Her head is spinning with all of the different sensations. His chest against her the tenderness of her breasts. The sting in her wrists. Unbearable aching in her pussy. Lightning branching everywhere he is touching her. Every aching point, resounding.

 

“Am I?” she murmurs.

 

He kisses her again, licking out and catching the roof of her mouth. She moans, trying to prolong it but he draws back and smiles. His voice is hoarse, thready with desire.

 

“I’m not going to let you out of my bed until I’ve fucked ye so thoroughly you’re begging me to stop."

 

“And if I beg you to keep going?"

 

“Christ, Balfe,” he groans and kisses her again. He lets go of her arms finally, tugging off her jacket impatiently. With one movement, he grasps the collar of her t-shirt and rips it cleanly in half, tossing the pieces behind him. His palms cover her bare breasts and he nips at her mouth. “No bra."

 

“You know I don’t like that,” she says into his lips and grins wickedly.

 

“I used to stare at your tits on set,” he says, unzipping her skirt. “I could see the dark shadows of your nipples and I’d wonder if ye were doing it to tease me."

 

“Maybe."

 

“So much to punish ye for,” Sam says, and lets her skirt fall. He kneels, taking off her boots. “No knickers either then?"

 

“No."

 

“That sure of yourself, were you?"

 

“No. Just — hoping.” She stands naked against the door, watching him. 

 

He straightens up. “Ye had me from the moment you showed up at my door, Caitriona. Ye must know that."

 

“You were so angry."

 

“Still am,” he says, and his eyes are burning blue. “God, you’re so thin."

 

“I know, I’m sorry."

 

“Why aren’t ye eating?"

 

“I can’t—“ she scrubs her hands against her eyes, trying to stop the sudden rush of hot tears. How fucking humiliating. “I’ve … I’ve just been— without you, Sam.” She’s helpless, trying to articulate. “There’s _nothing_. I didn’t realize— until."

 

“I know.” He studies her until she quivers, nipples prickling and tight with want. "I meant what I said. You broke my heart."

 

“I broke my own too."

 

“That ye did,” he says softly and reaches out, taking her hand and turning it over to press a hot kiss on the meat of her palm. “Get in the bedroom."

 

~~

 

Cait has never seen his room, and the idea of it is almost unbearable in its intimacy. She walks naked down the hallway, past the kitchen and living room, past the guest bathroom (she once tottered drunkenly into it to pee and almost knocked herself out by tripping over the bath mat), past his framed behind the scenes shots lining the walls. She traces her fingers over his favourite - of her pouting in his arms at the end of filming the second season. 

 

She can hear him behind her. He’s removing his clothes as he walks, and the sounds of the fabric hitting the floor are so erotic that everything inside of her clenches. A lamp is lit by the bed, creating a half light. Outside, it begins to rain and Caitriona watches the storm thundering over the window panes with heavy-lidded eyes. 

 

The room is navy and cream and gold, and the bed is a king, dominating the space. Sam’s hand touches her mid-back, pushing her gently until she’s kneeling on the covers. Cait sees a framed photo, face-down on the bedside table. She reaches out toward it but Sam stops her. 

 

“No -“ and his voice is strangled. “Don’t fucking touch anything. Don’t fucking do anything but _feel_ me, do ye understand?"

 

“Yes,” she whimpers and he pushes her until she’s lying belly down, her face turned toward the far wall.

 

She stares into the depths of his cupboard, with its suits and gym clothes and trainers. She can see her own things fitting there, beside his. She can see her dresses and jeans and striped tops cuddling up with his coats and jumpers. It’s a startling, sobering thought and she looks back at him.

 

Sam idly traces her calves and behind her knees with his thumbs. Cait trembles with every touch, already so wet that she’s rivering with it. Although she’s expecting it after his promises in the hall, the first slap of his palm against her ass makes her jump and cry out a bit.

 

“On yer knees,” he says, his accent so thick she can barely understand him. “Ass in the air, Cait."

 

She does exactly what he orders and he makes a sound deep in his throat. His fingers slick into her pussy, gathering her wetness and spreading it over her flesh.

 

“Do ye have any idea how gorgeous you look right now?” he murmurs, his thumb teasing her opening. Cait squirms a bit, trying to fuck back onto him. He smacks her ass hard for it and the sound reverberates through the room. She gasps with the stinging pleasurepain and he chokes out. “Ye just soaked my fingers, doll. Christ, I’m going to fuck you so hard ye won’t be able to walk tomorrow."

 

“ _Please_ …"

 

He spanks her again, rubbing her reddened skin afterward. “Do ye like getting punished by me?"

 

“Yes,” she says, pressing her face against the bed. “Again."

 

He obliges her, his hand coming down hard. She cries out and bites the cover, trying not to beg. Trying not to tell him that she’ll die without him inside of her, rooting deep. For some reason, she thinks if she lets on how much she wants it, how desperate she is, he’ll be less apt to give it to her.

 

He wants to make her _hurt._  


 

“You don’t know what you’re in for tonight, Balfe,” he growls, folding himself over her and biting her neck. “I dinna think I’ll let you come until I say so."

 

“God,” she groans, feeling the heavy jut of his cock against her lower back, the silk of his balls, the rasp of his pubic hair. It is the colour of deep, burnished gold. She wants to press her face there, take him deep down her throat until her eyes water and he knots her hair with his fists. “Sam, I can’t—"

 

“Oh, ye can. If I can get through seeing you on that bloody set these past few weeks and imagining nothing more than spreading your legs and burying my face in your wet, pink cunt, then ye can handle this, Caitriona."

 

She’s on fire. He’s never been quite so dirty, so raw. Everything he says reaches down inside of her and snatches her breath, tugs on her pussy. Her hand reaches behind and curls in the hair at his nape, that hair she adores so. She catches it with her fingers, yanks.

 

“You _are_ going to pay for this, Sam."

 

“I have no doubt,” he says, a smirk in his tone, and with one smooth thrust, feeds himself into her.

 

Caitriona almost screams at the bluntness of the intrusion. Her back bows as she takes all of him, and he grasps her hair, pulling, pulling.

 

“Fuck back on me, Caitriona,” he orders, and she does, moving languidly at first, teasing him. “No, dinna _fuck_ with me. Fuck back on me, _hard._ I want to feel every inch of that beautiful pussy moving on my dick."

 

God, he knows every little way to send her wild. Knows how much she likes to be controlled. Taken into the deep woods of her mind. Flayed open and torn apart and _owned_. Only he can do this to her. Only he can reach the secret, dark places inside - where she’s vulnerable and salt wet and crazed with desire. Ardent in the way that only a woman madly in love can be ardent.

 

There’s an agony in it too. Sweet, but burning. And she thinks she might just be at that point, as he tugs on her nipples sharply, pinching until they stand out, aching for relief, and she’s almost crying, thrusting back, trying desperately to get him as deep as he will go.

 

“God, ye can take me,” he growls, palming her breasts and skimming down to her belly. His thumb drags against her clit. “You take every inch and ye beg for more, don’t you?"

 

“ _Please_ …"

 

He yanks on her hair again, forcing her head back. His lips devour hers and they’re pulling at each other’s mouths, yearning and clawing. “Rest your head on your hands, doll."

 

She does, and he grasps her hips with his palms. “Do ye want me to fuck you now?"

 

Caitriona is so dazed she’s not sure she heard him right, but she thinks any answer will always be _yes yes yes_ and so she moans that out, trying not to protest when he draws out of her, his wet cock rubbing against her slit. He slips his hand down, along her ass, to her pussy, drawing the wetness from her and spreading it over her clit. 

 

She shudders and he stills. “Don’t come yet."

 

Tears salt her eyes and she thinks about biting him, scratching his face. “I can’t—"

 

He touches her clit again, lightly, ghosting. Just the tips of his fingers. “Ye came in one day last week wearing that red dress, do you remember that, Balfe?"

 

“I don’t— I—"

 

“It was like a sundress,” he muses, still rubbing, but so teasingly that her nerve endings fire, seeking release, relief, anything. It eludes her and she shifts, attempting to press herself back into him. “I could see your legs and your bare, beautiful arms and I knew you weren’t wearing a bra and your tits were poking through the silk… it was like any other day and I was half mad with wanting to fuck ye and spank you and drag ye out to the trailers and have ye there, up against them, your legs up around me. I knew ye wouldn’t be wearing any knickers and I _knew_ you were as hurting and as wet as all hell, and it was fucking _torture."_  


“Why didn’t you do it?” she all but snarls, wild for him, open and throbbing.

 

He bends down and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her back, just below her nape. “Because I swore I wouldn’t fuck ye again until ye came to me. And ye did.” 

 

With that, he rears back and slams into her and Cait does scream then, her overly sensitized flesh clenching around him. Sam presses his hand against her lower back, keeping her ass in the air for him.

 

He begins to fuck her slowly and thoroughly, making sure she feels every inch, every movement, every thrust, every circle of his hips. His palm settles over her pussy, just lightly cupping her by her clit, squeezing. His other stays at the bowl curve of her back, sometimes traveling up and yanking lightly on her hair. Sweet sting, and she revels in it, concentrating on the feel of him sliding in and out of her, _fucking_ her. She’s been empty for so long, it seems, and finally, she’s full.

 

Of _him_.

 

“You’re a fucking goddess, Balfe,” he murmurs, his hands falling either side of her and his mouth pressing against the side of her lips. He groans into her, fully rooted deep, no space or air between them. She feels impaled, crazy, trying not to move, trying to take this in, trying to remember this moment. “I knew it from the second I met you. Christ, I knew I was done for. Your smile—"

 

And then he moves back, grips her hair at her nape with one hand and places his other palm directly over her clit.

 

When he slams back, she cries out, and he moves his palm in time with his thrusts, his fingers on either side of her clit, pressing and releasing, almost smacking her pussy. The movements are so rough that they are almost painful, but not quite - instead, they are just what she needs, craves, is desperate for - and the feel of that, of his fingers using her, and his cock ravaging her, plumbing her, slamming back and back and back, it’s too much and she shatters around him, choking on sobs, choking on the unbearable intensity.

 

“Oh God—“ he growls as he feels her coming, his hips moving at an almost frantic pace, and Cait tries to help, lost in her orgasm, fucking back, and he makes a sound deep in his throat she’s never heard before, his semen rushing into her, hot and wet and pulsing.

 

Still inside of her, he shudders forward, making sure he cradles her body, turns her on their sides. Protecting her. 

 

Cait feels sticky with sweat, with cum, with the ink of her betrayals, her revelations, her heart. She is exhausted, wants to laugh almost. She feels… resplendent.

 

He was right, after all.

 

“You kill me, Balfe,” Sam whispers, pressing a kiss behind her ear. 

 

“I love you."

 

He trembles against her. “We still need to talk."

 

“Tomorrow,” she murmurs, drifting already. 

 

Sam reaches back, turns off the lamp. He pulls the covers up around them, gathers her close, so her back is against the throb of his heart . “I’ve dreamt of having ye here, you know."

 

“I know,” Cait says, thinking of her snowy woods, of Damien singing, of the long nights folded in on herself, wishing only to be _here._  


 

Aren’t all dreams the same in the end?


	12. Chapter 12

When Cait wakes, it is still storming.

 

She's on her side, facing toward the window. Outside, the sky is the colour of ripe plums and the pregnant clouds spill heavy gusts of rain and wind over the glass. She feels deliciously cozy, cuddled beneath his duvet, naked and sore and flush with the night before. And she's _free_ , she didn't do anything wrong, and the relief of that is sharp and sensual. To know, she can speak what is in her heart. 

 

To know that she is no longer gazing into that interminable abyss. 

 

There is guilt in that thought and she wonders how Tony is doing. Thinks she should send Donal a quick text and ask him to check. The truth - the messy, bloody, raw truth - is that she hasn't been _present_ with T for ages. When he accompanied her to events, she sometimes forgot he was there, or looked over and saw him, a bored expression on his face, and felt ... ruinous. 

 

How could she not have known it was futile? 

 

How could she have been so ... out of touch with her own _self_? 

 

Something crinkles beneath her hand. There is a note on her pillow. She can't help but smile even at the sight of it - _so embarrassing, you sappy twat_ \-- and easily deciphers Sam's messy scrawl. 

 

_Good morning sleepyhead. I'm making coffee. Don't get up._

He's drawn a man drinking from a mug, who also appears to have an enormous erection. Cait twists the note sideways.

 

"Like it?"

 

"I'm trying to tell if that's--"

 

"A cock? It is."

 

"Hmmm." She can't help but laugh. Boys. "Did you really bring me coffee? You're a star."

 

When she turns over, she knows she gawps a bit but-- _wow_. "It turns out I've been confused for a while."

 

"About?" 

 

Cait grins. "You wearing plaid and carrying a tray with food on it is my actual sexual orientation."

 

He laughs and blushes pink. "Thank God for Barbour, eh? They sent me quite a lot of stuff. Scoot over, Balfe. This is a wee bit heavy."

 

She does, checking him out shamelessly. His button down is indeed plaid - a dark forest green with black piping - and his jeans fit him so nicely she thinks it might not be breakfast she's hungry for at the moment. His hair is damp, brushed back from his forehead, and curling wildly at his nape.

 

Cait suddenly wonders what she's gotten herself into.

 

"Is this the way you've always--" she pauses and waves her hand helplessly. "I mean, were you always this bloody... _fit_?"

 

Sam sets the tray down between them and cocks an eyebrow in her general direction. A flush stains his cheeks. "Are ye taking the piss or what?"

 

"Would I be embarrassing myself to this extent if I was?" she asks. "This is..."

 

"A bit strange?"

 

"Yes, thank you," she breathes out. "How do we go from mates to...y'know."

 

"Lovers?" Sam wiggles his nose at her. 

 

"That's disgusting."

 

"I dinna know, Balfe, but eat up first. Or yer toast will get cold."

 

Caitriona looks down at the tray for the first time. She's been so distracted by the hunk of plaid covered alpha male in the room that she'd neglected to notice the food he'd prepared. She melts a bit at the sight. Her favourite. Scrambled eggs on toast, a bowl of fresh, rose-red strawberries, and french press coffee. He's even filled little jugs with coconut milk and cream. She didn't even know he _had_ such things in his flat.

 

"Well, well if it isn't Julia Child."

 

He goes even pinker. "Don't tell a single soul about this."

 

"Already tweeted, too late," Cait teases and settles back against the headboard with a piece of toast. "Aren't you eating?"

 

"I've been up since 5 am," he says smugly.

 

"What the fuck for?"

 

"Leg day." He gets up and starts pacing. "So. I just wanted to-- can ye tell me something?"

 

"Um--" she pauses mid-bite. 

 

"Did ye tell Tony about us?"

 

Cait chews slowly and shakes her head.

 

Sam looks crest fallen for a moment. "Aye, I see-- I 'spose it wouldn't be the best--"

 

"He guessed," she interrupts. "Before I could tell him, I mean."

 

"He _guessed_?"

 

"He did. Apparently he's a bit more switched on than I thought."

 

"But... how did he ken that we were... y'know."

 

"He smelled it on me or something equally hideous," she says, avoiding his eyes. "He put two and two together."

 

"Aye. All right. I just wish-- I wish I could've been there to protect ye, is all. I'm sure he was very angry."

 

"Not really, actually." Caitriona can't help but laugh. "Isn't that awful? He wasn't too bothered. I mean, he _was_  but it was nothing like I thought it would be to give back someone's ring. Nothing like--"

 

"Like I acted?" Sam smiles wryly. He leans down and pours her a cup of coffee, adding coconut milk without comment. "Aye, I wasn't exactly feeling like myself these past few weeks."

 

Her heart catches. "I worried you'd never speak to me again."

 

"I thought I might not." He takes a sip of his own coffee. "Ye had such little faith in me, Caitriona."

 

The words are like a gut punch and she absorbs them without so much as a flinch. Tears spark behind her eyes and she ducks her head, the coffee a welcome shield. 

 

His voice is soft. "I didna say that to hurt ye. But I wanted ye to understand where my head's been, is all. It was like - ye didn't even _consider_ me as an option."

 

"Sam...  I was terrified. All my life, I've been quite careful not to get tied down. I had so many dreams of what I'd do and be, and it was better to just date these men who couldn't quite reach me."

 

"Ye were engaged to him. You said _yes_  when he gave you a ring."

 

"It was more like... not saying no." She puts down her coffee and stares at him across the room. He's looking out the window at the storm and it reminds her of the night after the Golden Globes. The universe at her feet. That brush of his fingers against her cheek. "And then we met and I just -- I _couldn't_  consider you. I just couldn't."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because I knew ... it wouldn't be simple."

 

"Is love supposed to be simple, Balfe?" he asks, tapping the glass of the window with his finger. Rain streaks past and thunderheads rocket across the sky like huge grey gods. "I never put you down as the type to believe that."

 

"You've always been the one with all the romance," she says. "I'm just too-- cynical. It's all mush to me."

 

"Really?" he looks back at her skeptically. "Ye think I'm going to fall for that? I've seen your poetry books. Watched you moon over Gena and John. I've seen the way you care for those you love. I was there when you cried after Ghana." Sam walks back to the bed and sits down next to her. His palm covers hers and he lifts her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Their eyes meet, lock. "When ye let people in, ye love _so_ fiercely, Caitriona."

 

"May I have a kiss?" she whispers, frightened and aching and balancing on the lip of the avalanche. 

 

He doesn't answer, just leans in. When she feels his mouth on hers, Cait moans into it, unable to help herself. Her hands tangle in the hair at his nape and she presses her bare breasts to his chest. Sam's palms run down the flesh of her back, gathering her close. They kiss and kiss, the only sounds in the room the storm outside and their snatched breaths. 

 

"All those weeks, I thought I'd go mad -- all I wanted to do was fuck you and fuck you until ye came apart under my body," he says hoarsely against her lips. "I'd look at ye and I wanted to -- _Christ,_ it's always been bad but lately I--"

 

"How long?" she murmurs.

 

"What do ye mean?"

 

"How long have you--" Cait pauses between kisses. "You know... for me?"

 

Sam just looks at her for a moment and then drops his forehead against hers, nuzzling her nose. "I'd laugh if it wasn't so sad, really."

 

"What?"

 

He keeps her in his arms but reaches over, picking up the picture frame that lies face-down on his bedside table. It is trimmed with gold, simple and classic. Tears immediately spring to her eyes, star-bright and hot. She remembers taking the selfie with him, of course she does. His hair, wet from the shower. Her arm looped around his chest. The way they were smiling so contentedly. At the time, she'd thought that she'd never seen him look quite that way before.

 

As if he was home.

 

She'd immediately banished the thought. It was too -- naked, too much for her to truly take in. Afterward, he'd looked at it for a long time, and she'd joked with him.

 

"Fancy yourself, do you?"

 

"'Course, what else," he'd laughed and they'd tweeted it out moments later. 

 

She looks at it now, framed by his bed, and then turns back to him, warm in his arms, lips still bruised from kisses. "That long, Sam?"

 

"Ye've been so blind, Caitriona," he says, his voice low, rough. His mouth touches her forehead, sweetly, chastely. Like pledging a troth. "It's always been you."

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

In the warm half light of the early morning, Caitriona decides that she wants Sam to wake up with his balls in her mouth. 

 

She stirs before him for once, turning over and almost groaning when she sees the red glare of the alarm clock. They have to be on set (it’s a small mercy that he has an early shout too) in just over two hours, and they had been up late the evening before, playing endless games of Scrabble (of which Cait won most) and Cluedo (of which she did _not_ ) and then whiling away their time making out in front of the fire.

 

It was somehow so lovely, just kissing and kissing. They’d wrapped themselves around each other. Her legs hooked around his waist. His arms circling her, cradling her. They were so long that his hands could go ‘round her and still cup her breasts.  

 

This morning, Cait’s mouth feels as swollen as a split peach and she's deliciously turned on, like a body with new skin, almost painfully sensitive and tender. She shifts in bed and slowly pulls back her dove grey coverlet. They had come back to her flat a few days before to look in on Eddie and never quite left. 

 

She’s quite happy for that now, as Sam’s bed squeaks a bit with movement, while hers is quiet as a mouse. He’s naked, on his back, one arm behind his head, his thighs apart. He sleeps like he probably did as a teenager - sprawled out, careless. She loves him this way. Messy and bare of make-up, his hair wild and unkempt, his body warm from sleep, the pulse of his blood beneath his skin. 

 

Kneeling between his legs, she wriggles down to her tummy and presses her face briefly in the hair trailing down from his belly to his cock. Sometimes - like now - it is the colour of burnt strawberries. In the dark, it glows like gold. She's starting to know the smell of him in his secret places. A bit like salt, the sharpness of heat, tang of lemon, musk. She thinks again of the poem _my mouth waters hot salt_ and she dips down, carefully slipping her lips around him, gently, gently, not wanting him to wake just yet.

 

Sucking and pulling ever so slightly, she cups her palm around the base of his cock. It stirs beneath her hand, already hot, veins throbbing slightly. She traces her thumb down one of them, learning its shape and size. Her eyes drift upward and she's speared in place by his. Heavy-lidded and burning blue. 

 

Wordlessly, he touches her cheek. She smiles around him and sucks harder, her tongue teasing him. 

 

"Christ, Balfe. Get up here."

 

She shakes her head. In one fell swoop, she raises up and descends on his cock, pulling him into her mouth. He groans low and fists her hair, watching every move she makes.

 

Knowing they only have a little time, Cait sucks Sam to get him off. Quickly.

 

Long strokes with her tongue, deep sucks on the purplish tip, wet hand massaging his balls. He likes it a little bit rough, a little hard. He likes her to look at him during it. Likes seeing her eyes meet his with his cock down her throat. 

 

“Mmmphf,” Cait squeaks when he pops from her mouth and she’s suddenly picked up by her waist and flipped over. She’s staring at him from the opposite angle and before she process the change, his face is between her legs.

 

Sam _loves_  to go down on her and she should have known he’d pull a fast one like this. It’s difficult to be angry when he’s sucking her pussy between his lips and dragging his tongue along her already wet slit. His hands cup her ass, moving her on him, letting her feel his nose nudging her clit. She moans softly and takes his cock deeply in her mouth, trying to adjust to the new position.

 

He feels impossibly big and swollen, and doing this while he’s doing _that_ is almost an unbearable turn on. She feels almost anxious, needy, sucking him and tasting him, feeling his tongue and his teeth and his fingers between her legs. He’s eating her out like he’s hungry, like he might never get to it again, and she’s rocking on his face, trying to get more, more, _more._

“I willna cum until ye do,” he growls out briefly, giving her ass a light tap with his palm. “So don’t hold on out on me, Balfe."

 

“How could I hold out—“ she’s whimpering, desperate, and then he does something  with his tongue that makes her shatter, grinding down on him, and his answering groans as he comes in her mouth only intensify the sensations. 

 

He laughs quietly as he rolls over a bit, cradling her so she won’t fall, kissing the tops of her feet as he goes. “How were ye up before me? And what brought that on?"

 

“You looked good,” is all she can muster. She’s still shaking, and watches as he gets up and bounds into the bathroom. Hears his morning routine. It’s still so intimate, so _new_ and it never fails to surprise her how oddly perfect it is being in a relationship ( _gag_ ) with your best mate.

 

“Remind me to keep my looks then,” he says teasingly, returning into the room with a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He leans against the bathroom doorframe. “Just seeing ye there in bed… I dinna think I’ve ever looked at anything quite so lovely, Caitriona."

 

She flushes immediately and sticks her face between the pillows. She’s still not used to his openness, how free he is with compliments and love notes and all of the things she used to think were sappy and hideous. “Arghhh can you _not._ I haven’t even showered yet. You’re being ridiculous."

 

“Ridiculous I may be but I’m telling the truth.” Sam chuckles. “Get your lazy arse out of bed anyway, drivers’ll be here soon."

 

~

 

“It’s burger time,” Sam comments, opening the pub’s menu and wiggling his eyebrows. “I’m so bloody hungry."

 

“Perhaps you should stop running then?” she advises. “I sat on my bum all morning and feel perfectly fine."

 

“And what a gorgeous bum it is, Balfe,” he returns. “But I think ye’ve been blessed by genetics. I, on the other hand, would be an ugly bastard if I didn’t work hard."

 

“I’d like you a little chubby,” Cait muses, checking the menu for anything that doesn’t resemble a cow, pig or other barnyard animal. “More to grab."

 

“I have _plenty_  for ye to grab,” he says, without looking up.

 

They are at one of their favourite pubs in Glasgow. It’s cozy and quiet, and has a snug corner booth by the fire that the owner always gives them. Though he doesn’t watch _Outlander_ , his wife is a fan of the show, and he once made an embarrassing comment about their improved sex life that endeared him to Sam and Cait forever.

 

Regardless, the wine is plentiful and cheap and the food always hot and well prepared. What Cait loves though, and _craves_  really, is the privacy. The chance to look at Sam and let herself go a bit. On set, they’ve kept quiet (though she reckons they’re not fooling anyone - particularly Maril) and they don’t hold hands on the street or absent-mindedly kiss. So here, by the warmth of the spitting fire, she can let her eyes speak what is in her heart.

 

And Sam… he looks good enough to eat. Lately he’s taken to wearing crisp button-downs from Barbour (she’d asked if it was a part of his endorsement deal and he’d blushed adorably, admitting he just quite liked them) and fitted jeans. His hair is a deep auburn and curls at his nape. 

 

She wants to _bite_ him. 

 

“Fancy some wine with this?"

 

Cait starts, caught. “Go on then."

 

“Sancerre?"

 

“Sorted."

 

Once they meals have arrived (burger with chips, and a hot goat cheese salad for Cait), he pours them both wine and looks straight into her eyes in a way that’s guaranteed to make her nervous. 

 

“What?"

 

“Were ye texting Tony this morning?"

 

Cait takes a large gulp of wine and shrugs. “I was just checking in. How did you know?"

 

“Could just tell. Ye get this shifty look when you're doing something you think you should hide."

 

“ _Shifty_?” Caitriona repeats.

 

Sam’s voice is wry. “Well, aye, it’s not a bad thing. I’m just sayin’ that ye tend to look a bit like you’re feeling guilty. Like when ye eat McDonalds."

 

“That was _one_ time _three_ weeks ago and I told you I don’t want to talk about it—"

 

“Ye can tell me if you’re talking to Tony. I don’t mind. I just wish ye didn’t think you had to hide it, is all."

 

“I don’t, really,” she says quietly, deflating a little. “But I didn’t want you to think it was anything more than just making sure he’s all right. I still feel… well, bloody awful about it, if I’m being totally honest. I was a right bitch to him and to you and I made _such_  a mess of things. I shouldn’t have—"

 

He looks up from attacking his burger. “Shouldn’t have what, doll?"

 

“I… I know we haven’t been together long— so don’t get all guy on me —"

 

“All… _guy_  on you?"

 

“Yeah, y’know. Blokey.” She waves her hand. “Commitment phobic. Guys get like that."

 

Sam laughs out loud. “Balfe, it wasna even a month ago that I was telling you it’s always been you for me and ye think I’m commitment phobic? I think we all ken I’m a lovesick git at this point, don’t you?"

 

She blushes pink and stabs at her lettuce. “It’s just been my experience that men tend to run at the first sight of feelings."

 

“Then I’d have run three years ago, wouldn’t I?” he says low. 

 

  
_Oh god._ Tears spark behind her eyes and oh, the wet rush of them. She’s given up trying to stop her own ridiculousness and also given up pretending that she doesn’t… _feel_. That half measures are enough. 

 

“I was just… I’ve realized something since we’ve been…"

 

“Dating, ye can say it."

 

“It’s weird. Christ, this goat cheese is good."

 

“Cait—"

 

“Sorry, I just realized that … I knew for a while that I shouldn’t be with Tony. You know I was in quite a long relationship and it ended quite badly.”

 

Sam nods and Caitriona takes a sip of wine. It is star-sharp with cold and sends a shiver through her. “And I immediately went into lock-down mode. I just didn’t want to even face up to what had happened and I fell straight into sleeping with Tony even though… even though I knew I’d never _really_ fall in love with him."

 

“I’ve done that before. I mean, been in relationships or flings that I kent very well wouldn’t amount to anything."

 

“I bet you didn’t propose to any of them though."

 

“Not that I recall,” Sam smirks and eats his chips. He frowns at her when she snatches some. “Why don’t you just order your own chips?"

 

“Why would I when I can eat yours?"

 

“I’ve got something ye can eat."

 

“Must everything be sexual?"

 

“Yes?” he looks befuddled. 

 

Cait rolls her eyes and pats his hand. She thinks for a moment. “It’s just that I know I hurt him all the more because … because I let it go on for so long. I could have broken up with him ages ago. I should have been braver. Christ, we didn’t even… I mean the sex was just … _not."_

Sam has a decidedly squeamish look on his face. “Go on. I’m sure I can keep down this burger."

 

“Oh ha ha,” she says dryly. “Shouldn’t you be happy that it wasn’t good?"

 

“Aye, part of me is,” he admits. “But the other part of me wants to kill anyone who’s ever touched ye with my bare hands. So."

 

“Best not,” Cait says, wondering if it’s a biological impossibility for women not to melt when men threaten violence on their behalf. “And regardless, it wasn’t. He couldn’t even … y’know. He couldn’t make me…"

 

“What did ye do for all of this time?” he asks, looking horrified.

 

“Why do you think I have such a large collection of toys?” she says tartly. “It just — it wouldn’t happen. And to experience what… to have what we did in Cannes. It knocked me for six."

 

“Me as well,” he says roughly and looks away for a moment. “And then to … _not_ have it."

 

“I know,” she whispers. “It was all so… it terrified me."

 

“Ye think I wasn’t scared? I’ve been in love with ye since the day we met, Balfe."

 

“What did you say?"

 

“Ye heard me, I think. And ye know it’s true. I’ve thought of nothing but you since the moment ye walked in that audition room. I remember showing you the horses and hoping to god that no one could see how— well, how besotted I was. It was embarrassing and yet I thought—"

 

“You thought I might feel the same."

 

“Aye.” Sam pauses and shrugs. “I was a bit too shy to make any sort of move and I didn’t want to jeopardize what we had on the show, but— well. Then I found out that night at the pub that ye were engaged and — it felt like being punched in the stomach. I tried to just be your mate. I did. I feel guilty too."

 

“Sam…” Caitriona looks at him there, across the table, so handsome and uncertain in the glow of the firelight. “I’ve loved you that long too. That’s what I meant. I knew— I knew and wouldn’t… _couldn’t_ accept it. I was yours from that very first day."

 

He clears his throat and blinks rapidly, gazing somewhere beyond her. “Shall I settle up?"

 

“What?"

 

“I’d like to get ye home now. Under me."

 

“Oh. Yes,” she squeaks out, her heart full, her body thrumming. “Yes please."

 

~

 

It’s late, gone midnight. The moonlight is like diamonds and the sky the colour of plums. Sam is whispering to Caitriona over the phone. 

 

“Happy 6 months,” he says.

 

“Mmmm,” she stretches in bed. “What time is it there?"

 

“Just past eight,” he says low. “You under the covers, Balfe?"

 

“Tucked in” she answers. “But lonely."

 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says. “Tomorrow’s the final shoot."

 

“I thought it was another couple of days."

 

“Went well apparently. Clearly I’m a model."

 

“Hmmm,” she says. “I think I’d be a better judge of that than you, Heughan."

 

“Always forget I’m shagging a supermodel."

 

“Former,” she corrects and yawns hugely.

 

“Off to bed for you, doll. You sound done in."

 

“I am actually."

 

“Sweet dreams, Caitriona."

 

Her heart, _oh._ She gazes past Eddie, snuffling in sleep, through the crack of her bathroom door, sees again, the sharp truth of the pregnancy test. It glows in the night. And she says her truth over the phone, whispering it amongst the thousands of conversations that exist alongside theirs, amongst the starlight, the universe at her feet.

 

“I love you, Sam."

 


	14. Chapter 14

Caitriona is basically shitting bricks, as her sister is fond of saying. 

 

"That's disgusting," she'd once sniped.

 

Her sister side-eyed her and yanked her braid. "It can't be because Princess Diana used to say it all the time which makes it automatically classy."

 

Irritating sisters aside, the phrase _was_ apt. And when Cait's nervous or there are metaphorical bricks involved, she often cooks. Sam's kitchen is a _disaster_. Pots litter the stove. There are splatters of romesco sauce over his back splash from where the blender sort of accidentally lost its cover (Cait forgot to secure it but she was fairly certain Sam didn't need to know _that_ ). The linguine is boiling over. And yet, she's happy, calmer, more centered.

 

This mess, she can clean up. 

 

Adding a splash of rich and fragrant olive oil to a cast iron pan she brought from home, she adds chopped, wet garlic and begins to saute, slowly, slowly. Nothing worse than burnt garlic. In goes parsley, lemon, red chilies. Jumbo shrimp. It's all done in a flash and sizzle. At least his flat now has the sexy scent of Italy - fresh tomatoes (Cait had bought them at a local market and spent the earth), warm salt, char-grilled bread, heavy butter and just a hint of fire, of smoke.

 

A key sounds in the lock and she buzzes a bit with it. Footsteps behind her. Caitriona doesn't turn around, mostly because she's worried her face will immediately give the game away. He often says it. _Can read ye like a book, doll._ Sam's arms circle her waist from behind and he makes a contented sound deep in his throat, nuzzling into the nape of her neck.

 

"Hi, Balfe."

 

"Hi yourself," she murmurs, leaning back into him. "Mad I broke in?"

 

"I did give ye a key for that specific purpose," he chuckles, kissing her ear. Nipping it then licking away the sting. "Specially if it means you'll be cooking for me."

 

"Sexist pig," she says contentedly, just enjoying having him back, the smell of him. "Dinner's almost done. Hungry?"

 

"Always," he returns and squeezes her. "Fell asleep on the flight and missed the meal."

 

"Those are junk anyway."

 

"What're ye making?"

 

"Linguine gamberi." She moans quietly as he sucks ever so gently on her nape. It sends branches of lightning down the backs of her legs. "Or something like it."

 

"Let me jump in the shower quickly and I'll be out." He releases her. "Turn around so I can see ye for a moment."

 

Cait steels her expression and takes the pan off the heat. Spinning, she bonks his nose with her finger. "Hi you."

 

Sam tilts his head and regards her. "What is it?"

 

"Nothing. I mean, what?"

 

"Did ye eat McDonalds again?"

 

"That was over _six_ months ago," she grits out. "It was a weak moment and it's why I never drink vodka anymore so can we please just _drop it._ "

 

He laughs out loud and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Just teasing ye, doll. I love seeing ye get in a strop."

 

"I'm _not._ "

 

" _Okay_ ," he replies, imitating her outraged tone. 

 

Cait swats his bum as he walks away and he turns briefly, winking at her. Shaking her head, she goes back to her shrimp and her garlic and the bubbling tornado she's made of his kitchen. At least she knows what to do about _that._  


 

~

 

"That was classic, Balfe." Sam leans away from the table. She watches him with genuine pleasure, loving his old t-shirt, loose sweatpants, damp hair. He looks loose and relaxed, a little jet lagged, and _a lot_ fuckable if she's being naughty, which is 100% of the time. "Whatever was on that bread, och, could eat that all day."

 

"Romesco," she says. "Sort of a red pepper and almond hybrid."

 

He takes a long sip of wine. "Was delicious." He pauses. "Aren't ye drinking?"

 

"Had a bit of a funny tummy this morning," Cait replies. "So--"

 

"Are ye all right? You should be in bed."

 

"I'm fine," she laughs. He's a frightful bore when she feels ill. Hovering, anxious, endlessly caring. She almost wishes for her old boyfriends, who couldn't have given a toss. _Almost_. "I just don't want to chance it."

 

"Are ye sure because-"

 

" _Yes_  Heughan, relax." She pours him some more wine. Wishes for some dutch courage of her own. "I could use a cuddle though."

 

He grins at her. "Aye, that'd be nice. I missed ye. Twas only a few days but felt like much more."

 

"We used to go months without seeing each other," she says, feeling his hand touch her lower back, steadying her as they walk into the living room.

 

She settles in on the plush velour couch, and he sits behind her, gathering her so that her back is against his chest. His hands smooth over the swell of her breasts, down to her belly. She gasps a bit at the touch, at the knowledge, and snuggles back into him, rubbing her cheek against his like a cat. She loves to feel his bristly jaw, his maleness next to her femininity.

 

"Those months were some of the worst of my life, ye know," he whispers against her ear, cradling her with his body. "I missed ye so much it was like... this _ache_ in my chest. Very girly of me to admit, I'm sure, but ..."

 

"I love you," she murmurs, tilting her head so they can kiss.

 

He flushes her mouth with his. Their tongues touch and they both groan into each other's lips. He tastes like sin, dark red wine. And she can't ever get enough. His hand plays with her nipple through her thin sweater. He pulls on it, making it stand out in sharp relief against the fabric. The slight pleasure pain makes her moan and he smiles against her mouth. His other hand slips beneath the waistband of her corduroys, toying with the button, tracing her hipbones until she trembles.

 

"God, I love you," he says roughly, snaring her lower lip with his teeth. His hips grind slightly against her ass, and she feels the swell of him, the pulse of blood. 

 

Caitriona turns over suddenly, breaking the kiss and as she stares into the burning blue of his eyes, the words rush from her mouth. Rivers of sound. She's kneeling between his legs, jabbering like a fool.

_(Because of course. It would have been too much for her to ask to have done this elegantly.)_

 

"Okay so I wanted to tell you right away but I didn't want to... you know, spoil dinner or... make you think that--"

 

"Cait." He stops her and places his hand on her knee, massaging it briefly. "What the bloody hell are ye on about?"

 

She has to smile at his tone. Both tender and a bit peevish. She knows he was expecting couch sex - but she can't let it go any further until she admits all. So she does.

 

Short, sweet. Like ripping off a particularly weighty bandage. "I'm pregnant."

 

Sam just stares at her. If he had shape shifted into a waxwork, she wouldn't be altogether surprised. He's just... frozen. Reaching out, she prods him tentatively. 

 

"Sam?"

 

"I..."

 

"Yes, take your time." Now that she's said the words, Cait feels almost incandescent with relief. But she still-- _worries_. Is he going to be... angry? Disappointed? Will he even... and then, Sam blinks and _smiles_.

 

It's the sort of smile she sees on his face so rarely. Brilliant. Radiant. His entire body seems to change with it. He shifts on the couch and his palms come up to her face, cupping her cheeks with his long fingers. He studies her for a moment, tracing every inch of her with his gaze.

 

"Christ, Balfe, ye do know how to steal a man's thunder."

 

"Oh I'm sorry, are _you_ pregnant? I should have guessed."

 

"No, no," he chuckles and touches her bottom lip with his thumb. "It's only-- well. I just... I'm so ..."

 

"Confused? Sad? Upset?"

 

"Sad?" he looks befuddled. "This is... the most cracking news I've ever gotten. Well, second best. But still--"

 

"What was the first best?"

 

"When ye said you loved me," he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss. "When ye left him and I knew it was me ye wanted."

 

"Aren't you-- aren't you even the slightest bit mad with me?"

 

"Why would I be?" he's nuzzling her nose with his own. 

 

"Because..." she can barely keep her composure. Tears hurt the back of her throat like fireflies. "Because I forgot to take my pill like an idiot and got us into this mess--"

 

"Mess?" he repeats and leans back a bit. "Our first child is no' a _mess,_ doll."

 

"First?"

 

"Aye, I assume we'll have two or three."

 

"You..." she's laughing suddenly. "Oh, God. Why am I even surprised any more?"

 

"Surprised by what?"

 

" _You_. Any other boyfriend I've ever had would have torn off running or suggested I pop to the doctor." Cait can't stop giggling. "Meanwhile your first thought is that maybe we should have more. Oh my God, I'm sorry, it's not funny, but I just-- I keep wondering when you'll stop being so bloody _perfect_?"

 

He chucks her chin. "Well, _this_ isn't going to be quite what I had in mind. But I 'spose it will have to do now."

 

"What?"

 

Sam leans in and his lips flutter over her eyelashes. "Close these, Balfe."

 

She's frightened suddenly, and she sits stock still, listening to him. He doesn't seem to go far, but she can hear tell-tale sounds of rummaging. Is it a gift? Or maybe a surprise hols somewhere warm? She thinks of beaches, bikinis, drinks - oh fuck, naturally no drinks, dammit and then he's speaking, his voice uncharacteristically nervous.

 

"Ye can look now."

 

Cait does, and _oh_.

 

Sam is on one knee in front of where she sits on his couch. His sweatpants are falling down a bit, so she can see a slight strip of tanned, flat stomach. His gaze is somehow - _imploring?_  As if this wasn't how he envisioned it but hopes it will be okay. His hand is shaking as he opens the plush velvet box, and there, inside, is quite possibly the most exquisite ring Cait has ever seen. It is also so... quintessentially _her_ that she feels like sobbing immediately.

To be so _known b_ y someone. To be recognized. 

 

Set in a platinum band, the large, cushion-cut blue diamond glimmers like pale fire. Sam whispers, "It reminded me of your eyes, Caitriona."

 

And then she does start crying because she's not made of stone, and he laughs a bit, reaching up to wipe away her tears with his thumb.

 

His voice is hoarse and yet... so _certain_. "Caitriona Balfe, _mo saoghal,_ will ye marry me?"

 

"Yes," she says, without hesitation, without the slightest breath of thought. Because there isn't any thinking to do. There can be no more half measures. No more wolves in the woods. She pulls him up - she's surprisingly strong when she wants to be - and loops her arms around his neck. "You never did tell me what that means."

 

"I thought I did," he says, kissing her. He's trembling and smiling and he tastes of salt. One of his hands touches her stomach, so carefully, gently. "It means, 'my world'."


	15. Chapter 15

The day dawns bright, clear and cool. Caitriona stretches deeply, a smile touching her lips as she gets out of bed, walking toward the bank of windows opposite. Outside, the sun is just hitting the tops of the trees. The countryside is lush and almost visibly fragrant, pocked with sheep and rolling heather. Nothing to see for miles but grass and air blue sky, hills and mud, walking trails and it's as if she can smell the woodsmoke, the reek of animals, the fields of flowers.

 

Yes, here, she's _home._

"Mummy?"

 

"Yes, darling?" she asks absentmindedly, feeling little fingers on her nightgown.

 

"Daddy says must _not_ bother you 'fore breakfast but--"

 

"Isadora Vivienne Heughan."

 

Both girls jump at the Scottish burr from the hallway. Cait leans down and pecks her daughter's head. "Best mind him, I think. My bet is that if you ask nicely, he might make you some Nutella toast."

 

"Thought that was OFF LIMITS," Isadora says, emphasizing her imitation of her parents. 

 

It's all Cait can do not to snort with laughter. "Normally yes, but we'll make an exception this once."

 

" _Isadora_." 

 

"Oops, Daddy sounds a bit-- um, aggrieved," Cait says. "Run and tackle his leg. Y'know that makes him laugh."

 

"Okay!"

 

Caitriona watches as she races around the four poster bed, and out of the room. Hears Sam's chuckle and can picture him tossing her over his shoulder and making his way downstairs. Her little one. Two and a half going on twenty. Cait never really knew how she'd fare as a mother, but so far it has been about what she'd expected.

 

Exhausting, maddening, _joyful._

 

~

 

Clipping her hair in a messy bun on top of her head, Caitriona slips off her silk nightgown and steps into the claw foot bathtub in the centre of the room. When they’d first bought the house, this had been the main attraction. Now, it was the fireplace Sam had had installed as a surprise the first Christmas. There was nothing quite like splashing around while the wind roared outside and the logs blazed in the grate. 

 

Especially when you had company. 

 

The water is hot and steaming and he’d lit a fire for her in the early morning, clearly anticipating she’d want a bath. Eddie sleeps in front of the crackling flames, her tail twitching in dreams. Cait smiles to herself, tipping her head back and letting out a sigh of absolute contentment. 

 

On days like this one, she can't help looking back, especially to the night they'd "come out" officially. They'd managed to hide the pregnancy for most of season 3 - only Terry knew, and she was smart enough not to tell a soul about Cait's thickening waist, cleverly disguising it with heavy skirts and many, many shawls.

 

After filming, Cait had hibernated in both of their flats, just reveling in her privacy and their shared incandescence. Sam - in particular, hadn't lost his fascination with "the bump" and could spend hours just prodding it, speaking to it, singing to it ( _once_ , drunkenly, and horrifically) and generally obsessing over it until Caitriona told him sweetly to fuck off and find another hobby. 

 

The night of the season 3 premiere, she'd dressed very, very carefully. The dress was long, flowing and shot through with silver threads. When she moved, it was as if she was a figure of shimmering starlight reflecting on an ocean of midnight blue. She'd worn her hair long and curly, and put Sam in a dark grey suit. She'd taken to doing his hair - no more grease thanks - and had kissed him once before they stepped out of the limo, tugging on the dark red curls at his nape.

 

The reporters were flummoxed and much too polite to mention anything about the basketball that had appeared on the front of Cait's body. The fans had no such qualms, openly shrieking the second they saw her. Caitriona and Sam spoke to the reporters as if nothing whatsoever was happening, until they got to Kristin Dos Santos. Kristin - unable to find any chill at the best of times - was beaming and clearly teeming with questions.

 

Then she finally said, "I think you may have some news?"

 

Sam had touched Cait's back. It was a question, and she answered it by looking up at him and beaming. "We do." 

 

Kristin squealed. "Oh my God, is this- are you - wait. Am I dreaming here? Because this feels like a dream I once had."

 

Caitriona finally did what she'd wanted to do for years, and leaned into Sam fully, without reservations or joking or acting or half measures. Pressed her shoulder to the crook of his arm and felt his hand cup her waist. He pressed a kiss to the side of her forehead.

 

"We're pleased to share that we're expecting a baby," Cait said. She stumbled a bit. "I mean, _together."_

 

Sam chuckled. "God I should hope so or ye've got some explaining to do, Cait."

 

Kristin was laughing and hugging them and the rush of relief was so intense that Cait felt giddy with it. To finally speak what was in their hearts and not hide any longer. It was like stepping from the darkness. She moved her hand from behind her clutch, and the thousands of snapping flashes sparkled off the diamond Sam had put on her finger those months before. 

 

"Are we interrupting something?"

 

Cait starts from her daydream of that perfect, gorgeous night, and looks up at the door. "What the _fuck_."

 

Karolina and Ciara both giggle. 

 

"Thought we'd surprise the bride."

 

"You're not supposed to be here for another hour and I'm taking a bloody bath," Cait says tartly. "Can't I have even a _little_ privacy?"

 

"God no," Karolina says and flops down on the floral armchair by the window. Eddie looks at her askance and then goes back to snoring and dreaming about mice and balls of yarn. "We have to do your hair."

 

Ciara nods. "And I'm on makeup."

 

"I _was_ going to do my own--"

 

"No." Ciara shakes her head emphatically. "Now more importantly, where's the lovebug?"

 

"Downstairs with Sam. Probably tearing the kitchen apart."

 

"The caterers will love that."

 

"They're using the one in the annex," Cait says. "Because when you buy a Georgian mansion, it comes with an _annex._ "

 

Both girls nod knowingly. Cait and Sam's house is a source of constant amusement for their friends and family, though they certainly have never sniffed up their noses at visiting. In truth, Cait takes the piss out of it daily... but she does secretly quite like having an annex and stables and four (FOUR!) reception rooms and fireplaces around almost every corner and enough land for Adora to run her little legs off without accidentally smashing into someone. 

 

Not to mention a gigantic four poster bed for... things.

 

It's just all so _posh_.

 

For now though, more pressing matters weigh on Cait's mind. She scowls at her friends. "Could you both kindly get the fuck out so I can get my kit on?"

 

~

 

Her dress is a simple affair, with the kind of elegant touches that Cait treasures. A classic v-neck, slight cap sleeves, a long fitted skirt that flares at the knees, and a cowl that ends at the bell curve of her lower back. It's pure ivory velvet, and hugs every line of her body as it flows to the grass beneath her toes.

 

Her hair, she surrendered to Karolina, who pinned it and waved it and braided it into the kind of updo that looks a little unkempt, a little bohemian, a little wild. She wears only the blue diamond Sam gave her and rose pink on her lips. 

 

When she sees him at the end of the garden, in his navy suit, waistcoat and grey silk tie, she thinks _oh shit, shouldn't have looked._ Because humiliatingly enough, tears blur her vision and she blinks, holding onto her bouquet of wildflowers for dear fucking life.  And then - she sees him smile, just a ghost of it on his lips, and notices that his eyes are bright too, and everything is suddenly okay. Her belly unknots.

 

For, this is _Sam. Her Sam._ Her best mate. Her lover. Adora and Eddie's devoted Daddy. The best avocado toast maker on the planet. The one who runs her baths. Who rubbed her feet every night when she was pregnant (and every night since). The person she can't stay mad at, no matter how she tries (and she _does_ because how many eggplant emojis can one receive before they lose their minds?). Her partner, co-star, truth-teller. The person who can make her laugh, always.The one who would kill tigers for her. 

 

The love she never knew she'd find. 

 

The only love who can match every wild bray of Caitriona's heart. 

 

She winks at him and walks down the aisle, ready as she'll ever be.

 

~

 

The tent top is thin enough to still see the stars. And here, on the Scottish Borders, in the midst of night - they are as glittering as a vast plain of fire. Caitriona watches as Sam lights candles - hundreds of them. The party has wound down and their guests are asleep. It's just the two of them, with the universe pressing close.

 

"She's still down for the count," Cait whispers. Somehow, she thinks she will shatter the moment if she speaks too loudly, or moves, or breathes. 

 

He straightens and smiles back at her. His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat and he's lost his tie, his hair slightly damp with sweat. "Hello, Mrs. Heughan."

 

_Oh._

 

"Liked that, didn't ye?" he says low.

 

"I did. I was planning on Balfe-Heughan though..."

 

He chuckles. "Doesn't have quite the same romantic ring to it right this second, doll."

 

Cait goes to him but he stops her with his hand outstretched slightly.

 

"Dance with me?"

 

"We already did that."

 

"To something else." He clicks his laptop and she hears the opening strains of music, the piano, Adele's voice. 

 

_When the rain is blowing in your face,_

_and the whole world is on your case,_

_I could offer you a warm embrace_

_to make you feel my love_

 

"The pub," she murmurs, and they begin to sway. She remembers tasting his neck, the salt there. Vibrating with desire. Nothing and yet... everything has changed. "That was--"

 

"It was when I knew I couldn't live without ye," he says against her hair. "I couldn't imagine letting you go from my arms."

 

"But you did."

 

"You ran."

 

"And now you're stuck with me." She jokingly tries to pull away and Sam's embrace tightens.

 

"Don't."

 

"Or what?"

 

He gazes down at her. "Or I'll do this." His fingers brush her cheek and she is back there, in the hotel room, before Cannes, before it all, with him in front of her, speaking his truth. The world cracking open. And god, his touch.

 

It still disassembles her.

 

"You remember."

 

Sam's voice is thick. His mouth tastes of salt, of wine, of the most forever of all forevers. "I remember, Balfe."

 

She does too. Her dreams, her rivers, the snowy woods. Caitriona snuggles closer, and they sway together, the song enveloping them like an embrace, like a promise, a troth kept.

 

_The storms are raging on the rolling sea_

_and on the highway of regret._

_The winds of change are blowing wild and free,_

_you ain't seen nothing like me yet._

 

She does regret, for she hurt, and lied and drank in lonely pubs and thought that living a life half in the darkness was all that she'd ever do. Sam is whispering in her ear, from his vows. _"M_ _o saoghal, for beautiful, you are my world, my true."_ And she feels she can't ever get close enough. A bird shrieks to her mate in the hot wilderness, and she turns her cheek, looks out of the thin, white silk of the tent.

 

The woods wait. Her wolf waits. Caitriona can see her, no blood staining her mouth. Just dreams in her eyes.  

 

She seems to nod just once, hearing some distant howl. She turns, and pads steadily back through the trees, disappears.

 

It's as if she knows, Caitriona no longer needs her.

 

 

 

**_The End._ **


End file.
